


Destcember 2020

by Alejado



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 35,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alejado/pseuds/Alejado
Summary: Yup I'm doing this.  Obviously tone and topic are going to be wildly different from prompt to prompt, so make sure to check the notes at the beginning of each chapter for content warnings.  I'm also swapping out some Beyond Light-specific prompts for ones from last year.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 41





	1. Exodus

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: mentions of blood/gore

Under the burning sun  
I take a look around  
Imagine if this all came down  
I’m waiting for the day to come

Oblivion - 30 Seconds to Mars

* * *

Sometime during the Dark Age

Tevis Larsen watched the stream of people with a detached interest. From his perch high up on ridgeline, they looked like ants. It was hard, with the distance, to not remove oneself emotionally from their plight. He couldn’t hear their frantic chatter, the scream of their babies, the wails of their mourning. There was no obvious anguish in the movement of their tiny forms. He knew if he picked his way down the valley slope he’d be able to see the tears and the blood, the limping injured and those desperate to save them, the fallen forms of those passed.

He didn’t. He stayed on his rock and observed. The sun would be setting soon, but the people had nowhere to stop. The narrow valley boxed them in and there was no cover. Ahead of them some thirty or forty kilometers down the road lay the slapdash walls of Lord Dryden’s fort. Behind them, Tevis could make out the plumes of smoke coming from what had once been a village.

He was upwind of the burning settlement, but he could imagine the smell. It was something one never quite forgot. Woodsmoke, melted plastics and burning refuse, blood and charred flesh and death. It mixed together in a very unique way. He’d smelled it too often.

It was Fallen, this time. That was both good and bad for the people now forced to migrate. On one hand, whoever had claimed land nearby could welcome the people without worrying about incurring the wrath of another Warlord. On the other, a Warlord looking to expand their territory would leave them alone if they left. The Fallen would hunt them down like animals.

He stood, brushing the leaf litter from his pants, and cast one last look at the fleeing crowd before turning his focus back up the valley. They’d survive, maybe, if they made it through till sunrise. Dryden would take them in or one of the other nearby villages would welcome them.

The weight of his Cannon on his hip seemed almost unbearably heavy at times. This was one of them. Death would beget death tonight, whether he wanted it or not. Human death or Fallen, there would be no peace. He’d have to kill all of the invading aliens, or nearly so, to prevent them from finishing their massacre. Yet all of the bullets in the world wouldn’t bring back those already lost.

“We need to get moving,” his Ghost whispered. “They are all in one place right now. Soon they will disperse.”

Tevis didn’t say anything in response. He pulled the gun from his belt, smooth and deadly sure. He could feel the chamber was loaded just from the weight of it. He flicked the safety off and made his way down the ridge, towards the burning village and the Fallen and what was sure to be a hellish firefight.


	2. Thin Ice

Echoes and silence  
Patience and grace  
All of these moments  
I’ll never replace  
No fear of my heart  
Absence of faith  
All I want is to be home

Home – Foo Fighters

* * *

February 04, 2872; Saskatchewan River, Canada, Earth

It was an absolutely gorgeous day, one of those rare ones in winter where there wasn’t a cloud in sight and the sky was so blue it hurt to look at. The temperature hovered at the edge of freezing, kind enough compared to the biting chill that would permeate this place at night. The sun, though brilliant, left only a whisper of warmth.

Azra was eyeing the river with suspicion. Like the river was Cayde and she was pretty sure he was cheating at cards. “Ice-skating?” she asked.

“Never been?” Andal asked in return. Azra shook her head and watched Shiro as he wobbled his way somewhat ungracefully across the frozen water. Cayde was a few meters ahead of him, jabbing at the ice with a tree branch. The Saskatchewan here was wide and lazy. Ice had built up along its banks, though a clear channel still ran through the middle. Cayde tested its thickness with gleeful caution, daring it give way.

“I don’t have metal feet,” she said. “Or slippery shoes. Or an urge to lose a toe to frostbite.” 

“Well then,” Andal said, “Happy Dawning.” His Ghost pulled the ice skates from her storage and Andal draped the laces around Azra’s neck.

The young Hunter fumbled and pulled them off. The look of stupefaction on her face was perfect. “Knife-shoes?” she asked. “Someone took shoes and put _knives_ on them?”

“It’s a pre-Golden Age tradition,” Andal explained. “The blades make it real easy to move on the ice. They used to do shows where people would jump and spin and flip and all that. They had a few sports, too.”

Tevis had joined the two Exos on the ice. He slid gracefully, hands clasped behind his back and cloak billowing out behind him. The blades on his skates flashed as he switched feet, moving backwards as easily as he did forwards. Almost languidly he circled the pair, just out of reach.

He came to a stop a few meters ahead of Cayde, poised and proper like a dancer. Azra and Andal watched as he appeared to say something.

Andal could see it coming clear as day. There were a couple of jabs back and forth between the Exo and the Human, then Tevis did a cheeky little bow. Cayde shifted and then lunged forward. He hadn’t seen Tevis reposition his feet. The Human pushed off and glided clear as Cayde’s grab turned into a stumble, a slip, and a fall. The Exo skidded across the ice. He scrambled to his feet, but had only just regained his posture when there was an ominous crack and the ground gave way beneath him.

His head broke the surface a second later. Laugher and swearing echoed across to the shore. The Exo made to pull himself back up, but the ice was too thin and he went under again. Tevis was barely holding himself upright he was laughing so hard.

“Well,” Andal said. “Looks like Cayde found the edge.” Cayde’s second attempt yielded better results. The Exo flopped across the ice, looking like a bedraggled cat. Andal felt a little sorry for him, but he was up on his feet after a few heartbeats and tearing down the river after a still- laughing Tevis.

“Come on,” Andal said, “Or we’ll have to call our Sparrows to catch up.” He sat and began the work of lacing up his skates. Azra followed suit with no hesitation.


	3. Dearest Wish

Well that’s not to say you lose   
Everything and everyone   
Hear me out, take your time   
And watch the setting sun   
Take your hands out of your pockets   
Feel the water run   
Don’t worry about tomorrow and yesterday   
Is gone.

Of Love and Life - Caamp

* * *

Late in the Great Ahamkara Hunt, Venus

Andal knew, logically, that it wasn’t Tallu, but it looked so much like her that he was left stunned for a moment. Dark blond hair turned streaky by the sun, brown eyes, almost petite, broad-shouldered for her frame. It was exactly how he remembered her. She always looked a little bit slapdash, like she’d thrown on all of her gear in a hurry, even on the most formal of occasions. There was the humorous glint in her eye, the proud tilt of her chin, the way her hair curled at the edges. She even walked the same.

But her smile was too wide, too toothy.

The Ahamkara were wising up. Or maybe it was only the wise ones still lived- in any case, this one had been hard to lure from its cave. It knew the Guardians sought its death. They’d needed something powerful, a wish too delicious to refuse, and well…

Tallulah Fairwind was only five months in the grave. Andal was still shaken sometimes. A smell would take him back or he’d spot someone in a crowd that looked like her and he’d be breathless and heartsore, like it had happened just yesterday.

She’d been killed by an Ahamkara. This Ahamkara, to be specific. Fresh-minted Hunter Vanguard Caliban-8 had passed on the intel with grim fury in his optics, told Andal to make it pay. He’d been close with her, too. Andal had to admit it was too good to pass up- too good for him, too good for the Dragon.

“ _Brask_ ,” Lee-4 rasped from his left elbow, bringing him back to the present. She had a warning in her tone- _stay focused_. To his right, Pujari and Eriana-3 stood tense, waiting.

The creature that wore Tallu’s face strolled towards the group of Guardians. He had drawn its attention with sweet wantings- reminiscings of simpler times, running buck-wild through Ishtar or Freehold with not a care but where the next thrill came from. Then it had caught the scent of his grief and it was over. Bait taken.

“Well, Andal,” the creature said- that was her voice, _it had no right_ \- “What’ll it be?”

He did want her back. And he wanted revenge. For a second, he thought about it. The words were already on his lips- wishes to turn back time, for strength, for justice.

Andal reached into the Void instead. It was like dipping his hands in icewater. That, he’d found, was the solution. The Void was comforting in that it was absolute. If you could look death with a steely eye and a steady hand, you could do anything. You could stand so removed that the pain couldn’t touch you anymore. Or you could feel the pain, accept it, make it a part of yourself.

He pulled his Bow. The Void whispered _things will never be as they were. She’s gone._

_I know_ , he answered. He found within himself the strength to set it all aside. Tallulah Fairwind was dead. There was nothing in the world that could change that now.

He cleared his throat and spoke, staring not-Tallu dead in the eye. “I wish… for zero wishes.”

The creature exploded into a mass of scales and claws and teeth. Andal loosed.


	4. An Eye for an Eye

Some truths, over time, can learn to play nice  
Some truth are sharper than knives  
Some truths we only see in the corners of our eyes  
Some truths we wish we could hide

South - Sleeping At Last

* * *

July 03, 2874; Mojave Desert, Old America, Earth

“I don’t get it,” Azra announced.

Jaren Ward eyed her sidelong. He’d been expecting something like this. The Arcstrider had been getting more and more unsettled as they drew closer to their target. They'd hunkered down beneath an outcropping of stone, waiting for first light to make their move. It left one with perhaps a little too much time to think.

“What’s there not to get?” Jaren asked. Their purpose here wasn’t exactly morally ambiguous. 

“Revenge,” she said. The word sounded alien on her lips, held carefully like the concept might bite her if not paid due diligence.

“We ain’t here for revenge,” Jaren reminded her. “Abidan needs to be brought to justice.”

“What’s the difference?” Azra asked.

She _knew_ the difference, but her Light held just a tinge of… bitterness. The Gunslinger turned his attention fully to the younger Hunter. “You sure you want to be here?”

Azra chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Yeah,” she answered, “But I don’t know why I do.”

“There’s a difference in punishing someone ‘cause you’ve been wronged and punishing someone ‘cause they did wrong,” Jaren said.

“Outcome’s the same,” she pointed out. “He’ll still be dead.”

“But the actions are different ‘cause it takes different people to do ‘em.” Jaren shifted his position, unfolding his legs. “One’s selfish. The other’s selfless.”

“You can’t fix anything by killing people,” Azra said. “Can’t bring back the dead. And now in the name of justice, there’s _more_ death.”

“After what he’s done, Abidan certainly deserves death.” 

“I guess it’s just hard to believe anyone deserves _anything_ ,” she admitted. “Does doing bad things mean you just don’t matter anymore? And where the fuck do you draw that line? Your life forfeit ‘cause you littered on the Tower concourse? Death’s a real… final punishment. Like you’ll never be a better person than you are now.”

Jaren could sympathize. “You’re hittin’ a nail on the head here, it’s just not the right nail.” He turned to look Azra full-on. “Abidan’s killed seven people and slipped jail twice. He’s made it clear he don’t care much for the sanctity of life. Someone like that’s too dangerous to let run lose.”

“I’ll hunt him for that,” Azra said. “But that’s hunting him ‘cause he’ll _do_ wrong. Preventing that, I get. But back in the Tower…” She cocked her head, a faraway look in her eyes. “You didn’t bring Maeve on ‘cause she was angry- and not exactly quiet enough to tail this guy without him knowing- but she was talking about revenge. Asked me to get some.”

Jaren thought for a moment. “It’s hard to remember sometimes when you’re hurtin’ that you can’t change the past. Losin’ a brother like Maeve did… it shakes you. All you can see is your own hurt. And you’re right, killin’ Abidan won’t change what he did. But it changes everything else.”

Jaren gestured to the expanse of sand and scrubby brush before them. “This world should not be one where people hurt each other. It _is_ one, but it shouldn’t be. Maybe sometimes you gotta accept reality, but we all have to act to make the world better. If I don’t want this to be a world where people can kill, I gotta do my best to enforce that. I stand by and let it happen, I’m complicit, see?”

“You’re still killing someone, though,” she argued.

“Society’s gotta have rules, kid.”

She just shrugged at that. The wind whistled around their stone shelter. On the horizon, a crescent moon was rising. 

“Maybe it’s a flaw of mine,” she said, “that I’m too willing to let things go.” She spread her hands. “I get Maeve. I really do. But when we get back to the Tower with our report, she’s still gonna be angry. And years from now someone’s gonna mention the name Abidan and she’ll _still_ be angry."

"Bitterness don't suit you," Jaren agreed.

"Not just that. People keep looking for justice for the dumbest things. Honor.”

“Vindication,” Jaren offered. “They feel angry, they feel bad, and they go looking for justification rather than reform.”

“Maybe I’ll be a different person one day,” she sighed. “But that just don’t make sense. Can’t keep living in the past, you know? You’ll miss out on the present.”

An interesting thought. “If the Fallen all put down their arms,” Jaren propositioned, “If tomorrow they said they were givin’ up the fight, would you let them?”

Azra frowned. “I’ve learned better than to trust the Fallen. Died a few times to tricks like that.”

“Let’s say they proved it, somehow. We’re speakin’ hypothetical here, the specifics don’t matter. But say you were convinced they meant to try for peace. Considering all the death they’ve caused already, would you take ‘em in?”

“I… I’d want to,” Azra said. ‘It would be the right thing. But I don’t know… if I’d have it in me?”

Jaren appraised her. The conflicted tinge in her Light was genuine. “You would,” he said with confidence.

“Would _you_?” she asked in turn. Jaren chuckled- that was classic Azra Jax, always trying to look the world from a dozen different angles.

“Maybe the only true justice is that which makes a better tomorrow,” he replied.

“Tomorrow,” Azra said, trying out the sentiment, “The Mojave Desert will be a safer place.”

“Tomorrow,” Jaren said unflinchingly, “A man will die. And that’s wrong. Don’t try convincin’ yourself otherwise. But consider the alternative.”

Azra nodded. “Alternatively, tomorrow we let a man run free who’s willing to kill civilians to save his own hide. And then I’ve decided that it’s okay if he kills more people.”

“That’s the right nail,” Jaren said.

Azra shrugged. “Still not sure I’m comfortable with it. I know my judgement can be flawed. I’m just a person.”

Jaren tilted a head in acknowledgement. “The day you’re comfortable with it is the day you’re lost.”


	5. Nightmare Before Dawn

Heaven never ever heard a word I said  
I've cried enough to raise the dead  
"Everything comes and goes," they say  
Here tomorrow, gone today

The Balancer's Eye - Lord Huron

* * *

???

Tevis mutters something.

Azra wakes up, instantly alert, but it takes a few seconds to place everything. Tevis is here. Here is Camp. It’s just them two tonight. Cayde and Andal are off on a strike, Shiro’s on patrol. She can detect no movement besides the wind in the brush, so she relaxes.

She’s about to go back to sleep when Tevis growls, deep and low. She can feel the vibration of it in her chest.

Tevis normally sprawls everywhere when he sleeps. He is not sprawled now- he’d gone to bed in his usual manner, but now he’s curled protectively around Azra. Or maybe he’s trying to curl up on himself and Azra is in the way. His face is buried in her shoulder and he’s got an arm around her torso, fist bunched up in her shirt. His breath is hot on her neck. She grabs at his wrist but his grip is solid.

“Tevis,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond. A pins-and-needles sensation spreads across her back. Her side prickles with cold fire. Tevis makes a strangled kind of noise- maybe a sob or a cut-off shout, and she realizes this is not going to end well.

Everyone has nightmares sometimes. None of the Crew usually reacts with violence- maybe a shout or two, a little flailing. Azra’s learned she has a tendency to run. But Tevis is bleeding off Void Light in a rare lapse of control. Whatever is troubling him is _bad_.

She digs her fingernails into the tendons of his wrist, hoping the pain will wake him. “Tevis,” she says, louder. His arm tenses, nearly crushing the breath out of her.

“No,” he mutters. “ _No-_ “

Azra kicks him. The angle is awkward, she’s not wearing shoes, but it’s enough. His whole body goes rigid.

He explodes into violence, shoving her away, planting a knee on her back and twisting her wrist up behind her. Azra reacts without thinking, and the Arc is already there, jolting into his arm with enough force to make him jerk back. Azra gets a foot underneath herself and lunges away. She stumbles but regains her footing, turning to face her assailant, who, she has to remind herself, is _Tevis_. If she can ride out the next couple of seconds, he won’t be a danger.

She puts her hands up in a peaceful-yet-defensive gesture. Tevis is on his feet too, across the fire circle, face twisted in confusion and anger. The banked coals casts an eerie light on his features. He reaches out a hand, gathering purple, and Azra has no time to react before the fire is extinguished.

She expects her eyes to adjust to the moonlight, but there is no moon. Nor stars. She strains to hear him but there is no sound, no bite of cold night air against her skin, no ground beneath her feet, no feet, _no legs_ -

* * *

_Vertigo hits her and she is falling. The abyss is endless and there is nothing, not even her, and her brain screams with the lack of feedback. Sight and sound and proprioception have abandoned her utterly. She knows this dream, plummeting into the Darkness and hoping, praying that it doesn’t notice her. She’d be screaming if she had a throat and lungs._

_Instead she waits, panic in never-ending crescendo, for the abyss to boil up around her and for it all to come crashing down-_

* * *

She hears Tevis swearing.

She tries to breathe in but something about it is wrong- her body rejects the action and she coughs instead. She tries again but the sense of wrongness chafes- the feeling of oxygen exchange is gone, like her lungs are filled with fluid or nitrogen gas. 

There is a hand on her back blooming warmth and suddenly the air comes alive, vitalizing. She sucks it down greedily. It feels like her whole body is one big pinched nerve, numb and buzzing. Her throat is raw.

Tevis helps pull her up into a sitting position. 

“Sorry, sorry,” she rasps. Her throat is raw- she must have shouted.

“The hell you apologizing for?” Tevis asks. 

“The hell _you_ apologizing for?” she spits back, even though he hasn’t started saying 'sorry' yet himself.

“Fine,” Tevis says after a pause. “I won’t.”

He hauls her to her feet and the two of them manage to make it to a log. The night is eerily still, now. She should be grateful that the wind has died- the fire is dead as a doornail and the air has a chill. The two Hunters huddle in silence. Tevis begins rolling a cigarette with shaking hands.

Azra reaches for the Arc. It crackles beneath her skin, giving her back feeling and motion but doing nothing to warm her up. She finds herself shivering violently. Her Ghost transmats a blanket from the sleeping area and she fumbles to wrap herself in it.

Tevis helps spread it over her shoulders with one hand and ignites his cigarette with Solar Light from the other. He takes a long, deep drag from it, holds his breath, then lets it out with a sigh and relaxes.

Azra can see by the glow of his ember he’s still unsettled. His hands haven’t stopped shaking. There’s a disquieted look in his eye. Azra finally manages to catch the edge of her own Solar Light and blows life back into her hands.

The two Hunters stare miserably at the dead fire. The seconds pass. Azra manages to slow her breath. Tevis rolls a second cigarette, this time with steady hands, and lights it off of the dying end of his first one.

She doesn’t ask. He’ll talk if he wants to.

Talk he does. “Citan,” Tevis growls. “He was a bastard. Enough said.” Azra’s heard that name mentioned enough to recognize it. From what she's gathered, the old Warlord had done some very unpleasant things. 

She unwraps half of her blanket, he offers an arm, and soon they’re sorted, Azra tucked up against his side, Tevis with one hand over her shoulders and the other holding his cigarette. The normal campfire-and-dead-leaves scent of him is now tinged with sweet-smelling tobacco smoke. It has some weird associations in Azra’s mind- Tevis is the only person she knows that touches the stuff, and only when he’s been shaken bad. It’s the smell of close calls. 

“I overreacted,” the Nighstalker admits.

“Thought you weren’t going to apologize,” Azra says. “Apology not accepted. It’s a dumb thing to apologize for.” Reactions like that had saved his life many times. All it had done this time was tweak her wrist a little bit.

“You screamed,” Tevis says blandly. “When I knocked you out, you were scared.”

Azra shrugs. “Call it a reoccurring nightmare. I’m fine.” Shaken, but no worse for wear.

“You’re not,” he grumbles. Maybe he can feel her heart still pounding in her chest. Maybe he just knows better.

“Will be,” she counters.

He doesn’t have a response for that. They sit staring at the burnt-out fire until the sun rises.


	6. Triad

_The triad is a rhetorical form whereby objects are grouped together in threes, with a heading indicating the point of likeness; for example, "Three things not easily restrained, the flow of a torrent, the flight of an arrow, and the tongue of a fool."_

* * *

The Flow of a Torrent

“Azra.”

The Arcstrider looked up. Andal met her eyes and saw the confusion there. He gestured at the report he was writing. “You’re distracting me,” he explained.

Azra nodded and turned to look back out the Jumpship window. Andal went back to his report. It was quiet for a minute, but soon the rhythmic thumping edged back into his awareness. He cast a glance sidelong at his packmate. She was sitting stiffly in her chair, eyes locked on the stars outside. Her leg jiggled up and down in a frantic beat.

He cleared his throat and the shaking stopped. It wasn’t thirty seconds before it was replaced by a different noise- the sound of a knife popping free from its sheath and then sliding back home repeatedly. 

“Jax,” he commanded in exasperation. “Sit _still_.”

She complied, lips pressed into a thin line, hands balled in fists on her knees.

Then the cockpit speakers crackled. “Whoa,” Andal’s Ghost announced. “Nav’s gone offline. Radio’s on the fritz, too.” Andal looked at his projection. It skipped and stuttered.

“Azra?” Barring some crazy solar flare, the closest probable source of electromagnetic interference was the Arcstrider sitting shotgun.

The young Hunter stood abruptly and strode back towards the cargo hold. The speakers quieted. Andal’s projection flickered once more and returned to normal.

He abandoned it and poked his head into the cargo hold instead. Azra was pacing back and forth, barely making it five steps one direction before she was forced to turn around. She was fiddling with the straps on her forearm guards and grimacing.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Has it always been so small back here?” Azra asked in response. There was anxiousness plain in her voice. 

“What’s the problem?”

She looked dismayed now. “We transmatted straight here. I was still in Super.” She had been, he realized. There hadn’t been the usual time to calm down and take stock- their retreat had been more of an escape. “Things looked pretty bad there at the end,” the Arstrider continued. “I... went too deep, probably.”

It was easy to forget sometimes that for all the power she had, she was still young. Sometimes control could only be gained through patience and time. He reached for her hand-

She jerked back violently, hands up clear in the air, tense. Her eyes were blue-white with Arc Light. The hairs on Andal’s arms stood on end.

“That’s not smart,” Azra said. “That’s really- I’m fine. _Really_. I just need to…” She tightened the straps on her guards again and grimaced. “I’m gonna… chill. Over there.” She gestured to the back of the cargo hold.

“Punch it,” Andal called over his shoulder. He felt the ship accelerate as Charin obeyed. Andal turned back to the Arcstrider, who’d taken several steps backward. “Alright, kid, we’ll be in Camp in five minutes.”

“I’m okay, really,” she said. She sounded like she meant it, at least. “Just antsy. Can't just turn off the Arc like that.”

“If you say so.”

* * *

The Flight of an Arrow

“Tevis!”

The Nightstalker hissed and turned his aim elsewhere. But there was nowhere else to shoot. The refugees from the caravan they’d been guarding were just too close. The foliage was too thick overhead to let a Shadowshot through, the brush off the trail too dense. He couldn’t even shoot at what he’d aimed at; there were too many people nearby.

Tevis, apparently, hadn’t prepared himself to wait. He’d seen the Captain and pulled his Bow on instinct. The shriek of the unspent death in his hands was audible over Shiro and Cayde’s gunfire, rising in pitch even as his head whipped around, desperately looking for an avenue of escape.

There just wasn’t one. Andal reached the Nightstalker just as he gave up and took the metaphorical bullet. The Void weapon disappeared from his hands and he fell into a crouch, head tucked in, hands in white-knuckled fists against his ribcage. Andal himself had eaten Shadowshots before; he knew they could hurt like hell.

The refugees were panicking, even though the Captain and its crew were already dead. They jostled dangerously close to the Nightstalker. A concerned woman reached out a hand-

“Don’t _touch him_ ,” Andal snapped. “Cayde, Shiro, get the civilians out of here. We’ll catch up.” 

Shiro was beside them in an instant, like magic, appraising Tevis. He made brief eye contact with Andal, nodded, and turned back around, issuing orders to the cluster of Humans.

Andal put a tentative hand on the Nighstalker’s shoulder, jerking back with a hiss when Void ripped up his arm like icewater in his veins. He shook the offended limb and settled into a kneeling position beside his comrade. Every muscle in Tevis’s body was locked tight.

It was only when the frantic chatter of the refugees faded that Tevis let out the breath he was holding. It came out a long, raspy squeak.

“Breathe,” Andal soothed. “You’ve got this. Just breathe.”

Tevis’s breath hitched, his shoulders shook, but he made no more noise. He relaxed slowly, by degrees, letting a knee sink to the ground to steady himself, unclenching his hands, letting his shoulder slump.

Finally, Tevis opened his eyes. “Close,” he panted. “That was too close.”

He made to stand, shaky. Andal helped him to his feet, relieved to not feel even a tingle of Void on his skin. Tevis had things under control.

The two stood a moment as the Nightstalker checked his guns. Andal only moved when Tevis shouldered the strap of his rifle and gestured. “Dusk’s not too far off,” the elder Hunter reminded.

“Miles to go before we sleep,” Andal replied.

* * *

The Tongue of a Fool

“Cayde.”

“Whaaaaat?” the Gunslinger drawled in fake offense.

Andal pinched the bridge of his nose. “You really need to learn when to shut up sometimes.”

“Just call ‘em as I see ‘em, bud,” Cayde said easily. “And wow, it is hard to not see you. Did you come that big, or you got platforms in your shoes?”

He was speaking to the Exo that loomed over them. The Titan must have stood at almost 7 feet, though Andal would guess that his armor did add a few inches. He planted his hands on their table, causing the wood to creak under his weight. “Do you want to repeat what you just said to my face?” The Titan even _sounded_ menacing, low and growly. 

“I said,” Cayde leaned forward, uncowed, “that’s the most ridiculous-looking helmet I’ve ever seen in my life. You’re not gonna have any luck wooing that lady with that ugly thing on your head.” 

Andal cast a glance back to the table their interloper had been sitting at. True enough, there was a female Warlock sitting there, face halfway between relief and concern. Andal nodded at her. She abandoned her seat and made for the back door.

Cayde just rambled on. “Though maybe it’s because what you got under it’s uglier. Hey Andal, bet you a hundred glimmer this guy’s ugly as a Thrall’s butt. No! Two hundred.”

Andal sighed and looked mournfully at his drink. Cayde had obviously seen the Warlock getting uncomfortable with the Titan’s advances, yet instead of checking in with the Warlock or talking to the Titan like a _normal person_ , he’d decided to crow out an insult at a volume the whole bar could hear.

“You owe me a drink,” he accused his Exo companion. “I’ve barely started this one.”

The Titan drew himself up to his full impressive height, rolling his shoulders. Cayde reached for a knife.

* * *

TYPE: Transcript.  
DESCRIPTION: Conversation.  
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Cayde-6 [c6]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Andal Brask [ab]  
ASSOCIATIONS; Brask, Andal; Cayde-6; The Last City [Earth]  
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//  
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[c6:01]: Beautiful night.

[ab:01]: Shut up, Cayde.

[c6:02]: No, really. Air’s practically balmy.

[ab:02]: I’m sure I’d appreciate it much more if I weren’t in a gutter. And if I weren’t bleeding internally.

[c6:03]: Hey, isn’t your blood _supposed_ to be internal?

[ab:03]: You realize the hell our Ghosts are going to give us when they get here? I think we interrupted Charin’s gossip session.

[c6:04]: I saw that guy make like five passes at her. Wasn’t taking her ‘no’s like he should.

[ab:04]: So you find a way to distract him so she can leave.

[c6:05]: I did!

[ab:05]: _Without_ starting a brawl that leaves us bleeding in the gutter.

[c6:06]: Ah, but where’s the fun in that?

[ab:06]: I hate you so much sometimes.

[c6:07]: You love me and you know it. I bring excitement into your life.

[ab:07]: I think I lost a tooth.

[c6:08]: Stop moping about that and start moping about the two hundred Glimmer you owe me.

[Silence]

[ab:08]: That guy _was_ pretty ugly, wasn’t he?

[c6:09]: Thrall-butt was too kind, really.

[ab:09]: Fine, you can have your Glimmer. But you owe me that drink.

[c6:10]: Laaaaaaame.


	7. Forge Your Destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Beyond Stasis' is a little... spoilery. So I stole Prompt 7 from last year. Bite me.

I have made mistakes, I continue to make them  
The promises I've made, I continue to break them  
And all the doubts I've faced, I continue to face them  
But nothing is a waste if you learn from it

I Have Made Mistakes - The Oh Hellos

* * *

“There is nothing more I can tell you,” Ouros had said. There was finality in her tone, her face. “If it is right, it will happen. There will be no other way.”

* * *

Sulla stood before the Forge. The Forge was old, and the Forge was new. It had been built hundreds of years ago, but it was a thing of creation- it did not fall to rust or disrepair. Every person who came here touched it, changed it, made it new again.

Sulla wanted to be new again. She had never been good with Arc- too dodgy, to risky, too likely to leave the important things behind. But Void weighed on her bones. It had been so long since she had felt… right. Being a Defender meant being unmoved, standing and protecting. All Sulla could feel these days was stagnation.

She approached the Forge, climbed the sand-scoured steps, and stood as tall and proud as she knew how.

But there was no fire there. No heat but that of the sun (blistering as it was).

Sulla stood for a few minutes, uncertain, but then she turned and left. It wasn’t meant to be.

* * *

The second time Sulla approached the Forge, she was bitter. She had been in another argument with Miles. His words rang in her ears- _This is nothing but foolishness. If you want to go, go. But I will not follow._

Miles was a Striker. He was supposed to understand. But he was stubborn- God, they were all so _stubborn_ sometimes, and once he started down a path you could not turn him. He couldn’t see the threat on the horizon, nor the allies that could help him.

 _This will show him,_ she thought to herself as she climbed the worn stairs and approached the center. She had been too hesitant last time. But she knew what she wanted now. She wanted to take the Fire and set alight her anger. She wanted to hold Hammer and go back and wave it in Miles’s dumb stoic face. _See, see what you’re missing?_

But conviction was not the answer. The Forge remained unlit. Sulla glared at it for a few moments, then kicked aside a stray rock and stormed back out of the theater.

* * *

The third time Sulla approached the Forge, she didn’t bother to ask the Sunbreakers. There were no guards for the Forge. She doubted anyone would protest.

The stars were breathtaking. Days and nights dragged on here. The legends said that once, before the Traveler came to the system, Mercury was tidally locked with the sun- one side always in burning heat, the other stripped bare and freezing with no atmosphere. But the Traveler had touched this place, spawning rain and wind and kicking the planet back into spin. Cycles were important for life, after all. You could never grow standing in the same perspective.

Now the Traveler was wounded and silent and Mercury’s spin was slowing. It was still enough to provide cycles (though the life was long gone, poisoned by Vex Radiolaria). Sulla found it interesting. There were two versions of every place- one blisteringly hot, beset by high-speed winds and the force of the Sun above like a hammer on your back. The other cool and quiet and still, just the barest murmur of breeze over stone.

Sulla stayed for hours, this time, looking up at the stars. They were the same ones as on Earth. She supposed she wasn’t really that far away from home. She took her helmet off and breathed the night air. Despite the lack of anything but stone or sand, the smell of something burning was on the wind.

“What good are you?” she asked the nonexistent flame. The power was on. The array was aligned. But still the forge remained unlit.

She took the time to inspect her emotions, turn each one over like a shiny stone before putting it aside. It was only as the eastern sky began to lighten that she came to her conclusion.

“I don’t need this.” It wasn’t a pained rejection. She wasn’t bitter. It was just a fact: there was no power here that could fix her problems. There was no power anywhere that could fix her problems, aside from the power she already had.

She slid on her helmet and walked down the stairs. She didn’t look back to see the flicker of Light form in the Forge. And _because_ she didn’t look back, it turned into a blaze.

* * *

Ouros had been right. The fourth time Sulla approached the Forge, she already knew what was going to happen. She walked up the stairs, approached the center, and stared at the inferno.

And she wanted to laugh. The Forge could offer her nothing. She already had what she needed. She’d come seeking determination, direction, and temperance. But it was only with all three that she would be able to wield the Hammer. 

She reached forward, and the Forge reached back.


	8. Tyrant

I see the bad moon a-rising  
I see trouble on the way  
I see earthquakes and lightnin'  
I see bad times today

Bad Moon Rising - Creedence Clearwater Revival

* * *

September 14, 2950; Meridian Bay, Mars

She’s hunting Valus Ta’aurc. Tracking is really more like it- she has no plans to attack on her lonesome. The Vanguard is planning a strike, but to kill the Valus they must first find him. He’s been oddly elusive for a Cabal. 

Though Azra would have preferred to spend her week scoping out the Citadel, she’d come when Cayde had called. It hasn’t been an easy job. She’s died three times already on this hunt, but she’d die a hundred times before she’d think to give up. It was simple, in her mind: Cayde called. She’d go. She’d spend the week getting soaked on Titan or starving in the vacuum of space for him. He’d do the same for her.

She follows the Siege Dancers by their radio traffic. She doesn’t speak Cabal well, but Spark knows enough to translate and he’s in her head so deep it’s close enough. She tails them from a distance (there’s hardly any cover in the desert) as he and his troupe go down into Meridian Bay. It’s nighttime, the stars scuttled by the haze of a sandstorm.

The wind shifts, just a bit. _Something’s happening_ , Spark whispers, _something’s wrong_. On instinct she leaps from her Sparrow and dives towards the only cover nearby- old Vex-stone buried in the sand. Harvesters prowl overhead, but that’s not why she’s hiding. The air tremors with something too familiar. Time bends. On the Cabal network: _Stand by to fire. They are coming. Stand by to fire_.

Nobody will be watching for her. How the Cabal can detect the Vex coming, she doesn’t know. But they’re arraying for a battle and they won’t distract themselves dealing with her even if they do notice.

_Let’s get a better view_ , Spark suggests. She climbs an obelisk, swift and sure, and looks down over the battlefield. There’s tension in the air. Space itself seems taught. Azra holds her breath. She knows what’s coming.

* * *

_There was fire in the distance. It wasn't the defenses that were hit, not right off the bat. The Tower itself was still under a barrage of missiles. The explosions flashed like heat-lightning in the clouds of smoke. The actual lightning flickered, revealing the harsh outlines of Cabal ships hidden in the storm clouds. The bombs just kept rolling in, wave after wave. Anti-aircraft fire was beginning to fill the air now, golden traces lancing across the brown-gray darkness._

* * *

She shakes off the premonition just as the Vex arrive. With a crack like thunder they explode into existence, crashing down on the ranks of Cabal with a barrage of laser fire. Cabal artillery answers. Tracer rounds scream through the air, raising goosebumps on her arms. Shattered time flickers against her like shrapnel. She huddles on the point of her tower, drinking in the Arc-howl of Cabal munitions and the razor-edged glass of Vex fire. Below her is chaos.

The Cabal are outmatched. In only a few minutes their air support is all but gone. Harvesters swing drunkenly off the battlefield, navigation confounded by timespace distortions, occasionally careening headlong into the sand when their engines are hit. A Cabal somewhere cries into their comms: _Black Shield, Black Shield, Firebase Thuria, perimeter compromised, request terminal protective fire, zero six zero, one three eight, immediate effect-_

She feels an unfamiliar prickle on her skin. She closes her eyes, focused now not on the screaming battle below her, but to something _above_.

_Do you feel that_? Spark whispers, awestruck.

_Yes_ , she says, _yes, what is that_?

There is something _else_ , neither Vex nor Cabal. Gravity brushes her skin like spring rainfall. She can taste it in the Light- something removed, observing, eyes narrowed in scrutiny at the chaos below. It feels familiar, somehow. She’s seen this before. But where? When?

She has the sense of something old lifting a long spear. Testing its heft.

She opens her eyes when the shade of light changes- no more white arc fire and golden tracers- the sky burns like molten iron. Azra remembers a rhyme about the doom of red-skied mornings. Devastation rains, quite literally, and Azra has to shield her face as explosions rock the valley. Radiolaria boils and burns, Cabal munitions explode, sounding like popcorn to her deafened ears.

Then: quiet. The battle stops. Those Vex still present wink out. Though Azra’s ears ring, Spark recognizes the voice of Valus Ta'aurc on the Cabal network. “Find the source! Rouse the Flayers and find the source!”

She remembers then. Knocking about in the Cosmodrome, sitting near the Array and listening to the eerie whine of the gravity waves. She catalogues the devastation below as her Ghost repairs her ears. This would be news for the Vanguard.

The Vex bait out the Warmind. They seek to understand it. Makes sense. It’s a powerful new player in the system. It flew under the radar for a long time. Now it’s drawing attention.

The Cabal, too, hunt it. Whether they want to use it or just destroy it, she can’t guess. It doesn’t matter, really. Either one would be bad.

She’s not sure if they really need to _stop_ the Cabal, though. Rasputin proved itself quite powerful tonight. It must have deemed the attention worth it, to test out its power. It is confident it can deal with the Vex and the Flayers, or at least that the risks they pose are a price it is willing to pay.

She wonders if Rasputin knew she was there. If her witness was part of its considerations, or just an unintended side-effect. She remembers the ordinance burning in the sky like a giant red eye staring down on her. She shudders and draws her cloak tight around her.

But she’s not here to crack the convoluted nut of the Warmind’s intentions. She’s here to track Ta’aurc. She drops from her perch, landing silent in the cooling sands, and seeks out her Sparrow. It’s covered in dust, but the stones protected it from munitions and shrapnel.

She slides on her helmet, grateful for the distance it provides from the smell of boiled Vex fluid and Cabal oil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A love letter to [Ghost Fragment: Rasputin 2](https://www.ishtar-collective.net/cards/ghost-fragment-rasputin-2), the first lore bit that really captured my attention.


	9. Blooming Gardens

We're broken but still breathing  
We are wounded but we are healing  
We pick up right where we left off  
Breathe on the ashes that remain  
So that these coals may become fire  
To guide our way

Hairline Fracture – Rise Against

* * *

July 30, 2953 10:52; The Last City, Earth

Veera pulled in a breath. Wind chimes tinkled. She let the breath out. The fountain burbled.

A horn honked somewhere. Veera’s eyes opened of their own accord.

The sight was a familiar one. Veera came here often to mediate. The small garden at the center of the City was almost a sacred place to her. She knew every stone, every burble of the fountain, could tell which wind chime was ringing by the tones. Normally the familiarity was enough to let her block everything out.

But something about it today wasn’t doing it. Veera sighed and tilted her head upwards. It was impossible to ignore the Traveler. It consumed almost the entire sky from this angle. She could sit here for ages, beseeching the Traveler for answers. She knew she would not get any- that was the entire point. The journey, the search, made you stronger.

It also apparently involved a lot of banging your head into the wall. Veera had yet to kindle even the tiniest tongue of Solar Flame. Aggravation was not her ally in this.

She needed to go somewhere else, she decided. Somewhere special. “Open me a line to Azra?” she asked her Ghost.

* * *

July 30, 2953 13:11; Near Mount St. Helens, Old America, Earth

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

The breeze came, rustling the trees and rippling the grasses. The two Guardians stood at the edge of a clearing. The trees to their back provided cool shelter from the sun. Ahead of them, flowers and reeds baked in the sun. The clearing was perhaps two hundred meters across, split in half by a rushing river of glacial melt. There were a few dead tree trunks standing stubbornly in the cleared space.

They stood a few dozen meters away from the river in a clear area in the trees. It was obviously some old campsite, trampled from use. The two Guardians had labored briefly to move a bench from the sunken-in fire pit to the edge of the meadow.

Azra put her hands on her hips and surveyed the space. “We had a camp here… damn, must have been seventy years ago. Though I’m told Dead End Cure stops by occasionally. It’s a good spot.”

“This…” Veera let her senses expand outward, looking for the heat. High above, the Sun burned in its usual intensity. Below-

Quite close below, the Earth’s mantle raged. Very close. “This is an active volcano,” Veera informed the Hunter.

“Huh. Always thought that mountain looked funny,” Azra commented dryly, turning to peer behind them like she could make the shape of it through the trees. “Now that you mention it, I remember Andal saying something about it.”

“You made your camp on an active volcano,” Veera stated incredulously. “One that could start erupting at any moment and drown you in lava.”

Azra rolled her eyes. “Like I haven’t fallen in a volcano before. Plus, they make for good forests.”

“What?”

“See, look at that,” Azra said, pointing to the clearing. “Ground here is good. Fertile. It floods here occasionally, that’s why the trees can’t grow. But the flowers don’t care. Everything here is thriving. Volcanic soil will do that.”

The meadow was indeed a riot of color. Purples, pinks, reds, and whites stood out among the greenish-yellow grass. Insects moved between the flowers, dutifully collecting pollen or nectar or whatever it was insects did. Birds flitted between the tree branches.

“I mean, if you wanted q _uiet_ quiet there’s some caves in the mid-southeast, but you said Solar and I immediately thought of this place. Good Sun and good places to sit. Mountain’s stayed quiet for seventy years. Doubt it’s just going to blow up with no warning.”

Veera settled on her bench with some uncertainty. “What if the Fallen come?”

“Can’t handle a few Fallen?” the Hunter asked teasingly.

“I can handle them,” Veera stated. “But I am not supposed to be worried about that.”

“Then I’ll keep watch,” Azra said. “Simple as that.”

* * *

Veera took a few minutes to clear her head. Azra sat perched in a nearby tree, scanning the horizon with a handheld pair of binoculars.

Veera felt for the Sun and for the Mantle. She meditated on volcanoes. How her first instinct was to think of the eruption- fire, choking ash, death. How Azra immediately thought of what came after- rebirth, growth, life. How one thing could be both burning ruin and the progenitor of thriving abundance.

Something else begged for her attention. Veera set those thoughts aside and focused on the Azra. Veera dared steal a glance at the Hunter. She lounged in her perch, head turning almost lazily as she surveyed their surroundings. Veera knew what she would be thinking about. She would look down at the meadow, the life growing there, and think about how nature didn’t need to be cultivated. 

No. She’d be focused on looking out for the Fallen. She did not shirk her responsibilities. Veera knew the Hunter could name every flower in that meadow by name, tell her which ones you could eat without getting sick, which ones were in their full bloom and which ones were reaching the end of their season. She probably had some flower-related story that was hilarious at her own expense.

And she knew Azra could tell if bad weather was coming hours ahead of time, days. She knew if there was any Fallen nearby- any danger at all, period, she’d know and she’d handle it. 

So the Warlock relaxed, and thought of friendship, of trust, of admiration. She thought of the gentle set to the Hunter’s expression when Veera described her troubles. She thought about how the Hunter was now spending her afternoon sitting in a tree and watching the wind blow just to help Veera relax.

Tentatively, she touched the idea of catastrophe again. How may catastrophes had she seen with the Hunter at her side? The Vault, The Wolves, Crota- even the more mundane dangers, raiding Hive nests and exploring the Ishtar Academy- all of that pain, the danger, the dozens of deaths they’d suffered.

The reward for all of that sat in a tree a dozen meters away. And if the eruption came again, and Azra needed her like Veera had needed Azra this morning? She’d set herself ablaze and rise meet it.

Flame bloomed in the Warlock’s hands.


	10. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Depictions of blood/gore

The world is dark the night is long  
I could use a few laughs and a couple of songs  
The sun will rise above the hills  
You'll be leaving me soon, like hell you will

Moonbeam - Lord Huron

* * *

April 03, 2876; Deep beneath Old Chicago, Old America, Earth

Tevis struggled to breathe. Not only was he bent in half to fit into this crevice in the cave wall, but it was very, very Dark. It left him a bit dizzy, like the air was stale. His bruised ribs made their complaints known with every inhale.

His Ghost shone a pale flashlight, but it didn’t help much in such a chaotically cramped space. The claustrophobic cave was dripping wet. Tevis could smell a hint of mold under the reek of gunpowder, blood, and ozone. The water was chilly, the ground was slick, but could go no further afield in search of a hiding place. This would have to do.

He shoved himself further into the corner so he could pull Azra’s body into the nook. The Arcstrider grit her teeth in pain and did her best to push herself inside with her one good leg. With too much effort they managed to arrange themselves in the tiny room, propped against opposite walls.

Once in position, Azra went alarmingly slack. She gave a wheezing cough. Tevis grabbed her hand, noting with worry how weak her pulse was. Spent as they both were, they didn’t have enough Light to cure her injuries, let alone enough to rez her if she died. “Stay with me, blood,” he urged.

“Mmmnngh,” she groaned in reply. “Why… why do you _say_ that? Always wondered.”

“Say what?” He asked. He knew what she was referring to, but he had to keep her talking.

“Blood,” she muttered.

There wasn’t enough light to show color. It could be black paint soaking her gear, spattered on her face, slowly spreading across the floor. An unlucky tripmine was all it had taken. Her armor had protected her from the worst of the shrapnel but the sheer force of the explosion had been enough to separate her from her foot. She’d lost too much blood to survive, but it wasn’t enough to kill her quite yet.

Tevis sparked Solar on his worry and held a hand to her leg. He had to stop the bleeding if she were to have any chance of living through this. It was going to take a lot more than needle and thread to close this wound. (He didn’t have a needle and thread in any case. He had his guns, his knives, and his Light. Hammer, meet nail.)

Cauterization would work, for now at least. He pushed the Solar as hot as he could and moved to cover the messy stump. The unholy shriek that tore from Azra’s lips as his hand came in contact had him jumping back as if he was the one who’d been burned.

Azra swore a few times, looking at him with an accusing panic. “We need to stop the bleeding,” he explained. “They’re on their way but chances of a rez go way down if you die now.”

Azra nodded in understanding. “Jus’… lemme…” Her eyes fluttered shut and for a second Tevis thought that was it, she was dead. But he felt the tingle of Void Light on her skin and realized what she was doing- hammer, meet nail. No anesthetic in this cramped cave, but a little dip in the Void would work in a pinch.

He almost couldn’t bring her around again after he was done. Eventually, with a good deal of shaking and yelling, her eyelids flickered back open. She stared at the ceiling bleakly. Five minutes, he told himself. It couldn’t take more than five minutes for the rest of the Crew to catch up. With four healthy Guardians surely they’d have enough Light for a rez.

“Hey, you were asking me a question, remember?” Tevis led. If she was talking, she was conscious. If she was conscious, she wasn’t done for yet.

“Mmm.” She replied. “Did you see where my foot ended up?”

It was morbidly hilarious. “I think that one’s a loss. If it isn’t vaporized it’s in some dark corner.” 

She sighed. “I liked that foot.”

“Not the boot,” Tevis asked. “The _foot_?”

“I named it Kicks McGee,” she informed him seriously. Her grip on his hand trembled. Her palms were soaked with a mixture of sweat, blood, cave mud, and ether.

“Well Mr. McGee is a goner.”

Azra closed her eyes. Tevis jerked her hand. She glared at him accusingly. _What do you want?_

He raised an eyebrow. _Aren’t you forgetting something_? “Ask your question, Jax.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah. Calling people ‘blood’. Why? Can’t be a Human thing, you call Cayde and Shiro it, too. Think you called a deer ‘blood’ once.”

“Well,” Tevis said, “when do I use it?”

Her face scrunched up in concentration. “Tease,” she accused. “Pretending like you were gonna answer me straight.”

“You can answer your own damn question.”

She sighed and let herself slump down a little further. The tremor was gone from her voice, but her heartbeat was growing unsteady. “You use it… not like, when someone’s being an idiot… like kind of an are-you-sure-about-this way. When someone’s being cocky.”

“That’s not all of it,” Tevis said. “You aren’t being cocky now.”

“Uuuuugh. When things are _serious_. Kind of.” Her breathing sped up suddenly, short, shallow pants. It took several seconds for her to calm it. Her expression made no question about whether she was still in pain. “When there’s risk. Or someone might push things too far. But Cayde and Shiro don’t have blood, Tev.”

“Exos still bleed,” Tevis said.

“Oil and hydraulic fluid and something that smells just a little bit like Radiolaria,” she mused. “Guess they do.”

“It’s a reminder,” Tevis said. “Everything bleeds. Everything dies.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “How’s it work as a reminder if people don’t know why you say it?”

“Didn’t say it was a reminder for _you_.”

“Oh.”

He watched her space out a little, eyes taking a faraway cast. There was a tiny ripple of that now-familiar _something_ in her Light.

He shook her shoulder. “Hey now. No chasing daydreams, Jax. You stay here with me.”

“Can’t feel my toes,” she murmured.

“Your toes aren’t attached to your body,” Tevis said.

“Can’t feel my other toes,” she said. Her breathing was labored now, each inhale seeming to take an enormous effort. “Or my fingers.”

“Hang in there.”

“Bleeding out’s not a fun way to go,” she slurred. “Remind me not to do it again.”

“You gotta stay with me if you’re gonna have more chances at that.”

“You’re asking me to _stay_ ,” she said plaintively. With Azra it was always _come here_ or _go there_. You did not ask her to sit still.

“Yes,” Tevis said. “Stay with me. Don’t go wandering where your Ghost can’t bring you back.”

“I promise,” she whispered.

She didn’t speak again, but her hand never slackened its grip on his. She was still breathing, if barely, two minutes later when Andal’s anxious face peaked into their hiding place.

(They did find her foot later, stuck in a crevice in the ceiling. They had an incredibly serious funeral returning Kicks McGee to the earth after Azra reclaimed her boot.)


	11. Heresy

This isn’t like the first time anymore  
And I’ve been chasing that too long  
Digging for the lost memories  
Of a youth written in fire  
You’ve always said it’s not too late for me  
Well I sure am listening to you now  
Believe in me so I can trust myself  
Cause there’s a first time for that too

A Youth Written In Fire - Snow Patrol

* * *

December 02, 2892; The Last City, Earth

“It’s practically heresy. Look at him. Bug-hugger walking around the Tower like he owns the place.”

Shiro-4 moved his optics but not his head, quickly locating the source of the half-whispered words. It was another Hunter, dressed in a flashy white-and-black getup. He nudged the purple-clad female Titan next to him, who rolled her shoulders and tilted her head.

Azra hadn’t noticed anything. She cleared her throat and tried her pronunciation again. “Shedrak huyet, sha dakovo bonaloh.”

“She _draak_ ,” he corrected absentmindedly. “Bo-nafrendi. You’re not House Wolves.”

She frowned. “Not House Deathless, either.”

“It’s a lot better sounding than what the Eliksni call us.”

“I mean, listen to him growl on. Probably speaks Fallen better than English. Disgrace.”

“You got a problem?” Shiro asked, pointed and clear. Azra turned her head, locating the two interlopers immediately. Tevis stirred from his dozing place behind the bench.

“In fact, I do,” the Hunter said back, crossing his arms. “Spew your filth elsewhere. Or better yet, don’t spew it at all.”

“Just ‘cause you don’t speak it-“ Azra began-

The Hunter cut her off. “Why would I want to? Fuckin’- goes against everything it means to be a Guardian. Speakin’ their language. Just kill ‘em and get it over with.”

“Watch your tongue,” Tevis warned. He stood, fixing the two Guardians with an icy glare. “Shiro’s killed more Fallen than you’ve seen days.”

“He who fights monsters becomes a monster himself,” the Hunter taunted. “Next thing you know you’ll be drinkin’ Ether and eatin’ babies like the rest of ‘em. How anyone can trust you in the field is a miracle to me. I’d be lookin’ over my shoulder, wonderin’ when the speakin’ and the bowing lessons gonna turn into Guardian-killin’.”

Tevis vaulted the bench and took a few threatening paces forward. “Concourse is ours, same as yours. You trying to kick us out?”

“Should have been done a long time ago,” the Titan spoke. “You’re all freakshows playing at being Hunters. You don’t belong here.”

It wasn’t often just words could get Tevis angry. His stance was a little too tense, his voice a little too low to be just for show. “You calling into question if I’m a Hunter?” the Nighstalker growled. “Pick your next words carefully.”

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” the Titan taunted. Tevis shifted backwards, just an inch, but it was enough to let Shiro know the words had actually cut. “I’ve heard that you’ve killed a lot of people. Even after the Iron Lords put out their decree. Never mind ‘Hunter’, can you even call yourself a Guardian?”

People were pausing to watch now. Most of them were strangers, more interested in the spectacle than concerned for either side. The Hunter shrugged in easy confidence. The Titan stood firm, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Hold up,” Azra said. “You don’t just get to-“

“And you’re just defendin’ him ‘cause he’s all you got,” the Hunter interrupted. “Don’t play anything else. Freak of nature. ‘Course the only people who wanna cozy up to you is the Gurdian-killer and the traitor. Wonder you all haven't been exiled already.”

“What’s going on here?”

Cayde had arrived, untimely as always. The takeout boxes in his hands steamed in the afternoon air.

“Ah, Cayde-6. At least you’re a real Hunter. Still a liar and a cheat, but it’s better compared to the bughugger, the murderer, and the freak you call pack.”

Cayde put the boxes down with force. “You know what, I don’t even wanna know. Leave. Or I’ll make you.” His hand went to his Hand Cannon in a threatening gesture.

The black-and-white Hunter flapped a hand. “Oh, go back to your Vanguard boyfriend and cry about it. That’s the worst one, I think. Man loses the Dare and actually likes it. Or maybe it’s just ‘cause he doesn’t have to spend more time around you.”

Shiro wondered which one of them would break first. It turned out to be Azra. The opposing Hunter hadn't even finished his sentence when she lunged, too quick for any of them to catch. The other Hunter went down with a surprised grunt. Shiro moved automatically to cover his purple-armored comrade, to stop her from diving into the fight as well.

“Guardians!” came the unmistakable booming voice of Lord Shaxx. The crowd parted and suddenly the Titan was there, pulling the two Hunters apart. “Take it to the Crucible. This is not a place for petty squabbles.”

“Jus’ speakin’ the truth,” the black-and-white Hunter said, spitting blood out on the ground. “Put yer animal on a leash next time.”

“What’s your name, Hunter,” Shaxx said, somehow turning the question into a command.

“Skander,” the Hunter answered back.

“Skander,” Shaxx said. “I will remember you. Trash talk is discouraged in the Crucible.” He turned to the Hunter in his other hand. “And Azra Jax. You should know better.”

“Can’t just let him go around saying that stuff,” the Arcstrider hissed. Her face was stony. “Don’t care if it gets me in trouble. It isn’t right.”

“Azra,” Shiro said. “It’s fine.”

“It’s really not,” Tevis said.

Shaxx put the two Hunters down. Skander brushed himself off. Azra put a hand on her dagger and glared, not looking one bit like she was done.

“You two,” the Crucible Handler commanded. “Get out of here. Don’t let me see your faces for the rest of the day.” The purple Titan dragged her companion off. Shaxx turned to address the crowd. “The rest of you, move along. The show is over.”

The people dispersed quickly. Nobody wanted to be on Shaxx’s bad side. Cayde retrieved the takeout boxes, which were miraculously unharmed. 

“He’s wrong, you know,” Shaxx said. The Titan crossed his arms and contemplated the direction the interlopers had wandered off towards. “I heard the whole exchange. He was wrong in every part.”

“I know, right?” Cayde said. “Callin’ me a cheat.”

The Crucible Handler fixed Cayde with a glare that said he knew a lot more than he let on. “While I disagree with your methods in the Crucible, your job in the Crucible is to teach and to learn. Out in the wilds, we need every advantage we can get. There is no playing fair.”

“He was just being an idiot,” Tevis sighed. “It’s against personal policy to let idiots make me question my life choices. But damn, was needs to learn when to shut his mouth.”

The two younger Hunters remained quiet. Shiro sat back down and looked at the list of Eliksni taunts he’d been trying to teach Azra. Azra, in turn, liberated her food from Cayde and went about attacking it with a frown still on her face.

“Heresy,” Lord Shaxx mused. Shiro and Azra both paused to look up at him. 

The Titan gestured. “We celebrate our differences. They make us stronger. That is what makes us Human, what makes the City worth fighting for. And it's why we will win. You all are _assets_ to all of us. We would be weaker without you. More blind. Saying you should be shunned- _that_ is the heresy." 

Cayde spoke up. "How much intel have we gotten because you speak Fallen? And I hate to admit it, it's saved our lives more than a few times. You can outplay them 'cause you know the plays."

"Know thy enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles, you will never be defeated," Shaxx intoned as if he were reading scripture. "You are veterans of Twilight Gap. We fought together at Burning Lake. If you do not belong, it is _our_ fault, not yours. You are more than owed belonging at this point.”

Azra shrugged and continued eating her food (though, Shiro noted, the worry lines were gone from her forehead). "Thanks," Shiro said.

“The next time someone insinuates that you are not to be trusted,” Shaxx said, “take it to the Crucible. And call me. We will show them the meaning of trust.”

He nodded a farewell, clapped Shiro on the shoulder so hard he overloaded the shock absorbers there, and strode off down the concourse.

“Sometimes I think he ain’t half bad,” Cayde said through a mouthful of Pad Thai.


	12. Roses and Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. I know logically that Day 8 was prompting for Black Garden stuff and today really suits Shin Malphur/Jaren Ward/Dredgen Yor's story. But _listen_.  
>  _I do what I want. You can't stop me._

Unfamiliar walls  
Spin me round the room  
In tangerine air  
Throwing down the lights, on me

I fight for my bearings  
Trying to realize  
That this isn't language  
My tongue can relay

Gray Eminence – Casey LaLonde

* * *

The Black Garden is stunning in more ways than one. It’s gorgeous, if just slightly alien. It makes sense, Azra supposes. This place was not crafted with an eye for Human ideals of beauty. Or perhaps Humans were not properly raised to enjoy this place.

In any case, it is still beautiful. There is greenery everywhere. The fertile plains of flowers give way in the distance to untamed crags. The air is clean and sweet, with hardly a breeze to rustle the plants.

The plants rustle anyway. Azra stares down at the rolling hills and watches. The ripples in the flowers form patterns, ones that she recognizes. She’s seen those same patterns time and again on the trembling surface of Radiolaria. They echo and split and combine with themselves in an eternal dance.

If that weren’t odd enough, the sky isn’t the right color. It’s not quite a color at all. Instead of Rayleigh-scattered blues and purples, it’s the rainbow-edged gray of sun refracted through water.

And the light is _weird_. Spark takes a spectral analysis and finds not only that it’s not from Sol, but the wavelengths present couldn’t be produced by the simple blackbody radiation of any star. It lends itself to the otherworldliness of this place. Azra can’t tell if anything is the actual color it is, or if the light casts different hues. Her green gear should blend in with the plants, but it doesn’t.

The ground follows the worrying trend. Though Azra knows it should be rich, full of Carbon and Nitrogen and Phosphorus, the scans Spark takes are all contradictory. She can smell the decaying organics, feel the loam between her fingers, but when viewed with a cold, hard eye, the illusion falls apart. There are things that are not beetles and ants crawling through the dirt.

Azra dusts the soil from her fingers and turns her attention to the flowers. They’re absolutely everywhere. They’re unlike quite any she’s seen on Earth (or Venus or Io, for that matter). But they’re not some alien plant, spawned for different conditions, they’re _flowers_. Red-petaled, black-throated, with stems and leaves-

And thorns, Azra learns. She draws her hand back and watches in fascination as a drop of blood wells from the thick pad of her thumb. She sticks the offended finger in her mouth, but the wound is already closed. The pain fades quickly, but the iron tang on her tongue persists.

With a shrug, Guardian and Ghost leave behind the intensive scanning. All it will tell them is that this place is not what it seems, and they already know that. It’s the Black Garden. Besides, for all the Warlocks back in the City would kill for data, Azra is not here to study this place; she’s here to _scout_ it.

She stows her helmet and gloves, picks a mountain peak on the horizon, and sets off.

She’s not stupid. She leaves a trail of beacons behind her. Spark hovers high above, keeping watch for any wandering Vex. He takes video of the flowers rippling in the nonexistent breeze, noting how the patterns change in the wake of his Guardian’s passage. He charts the imperceptibly slow movements of the unfamiliar planets in the sky.

They make their way through the flower-fields, across straight pathways of Vex bronze (unpowered, disconnected), over a few small canals and down into and across some larger ones. The fields quickly become monotonous. The mountains in the distance don’t appear to be getting any closer.

Then they come to someplace _interesting._

Azra skirts a stone ridge and comes across a cavern in the rock face- more like a crevice. It seems out-of-place, too real. Like a broken bit of scenery, a tear in the curtain. She takes a few steps inside and finds the space lit by an odd fungus that glows like foxfire.

Spark had pinged radar, giving them a vague map of the terrain for miles. But outside of the Vex-heavy areas, away from the center where the Heart had been killed, the Garden is incredibly boring. Rolling hill after rolling hill, canal after canal. This is something new, something worthy of exploration.

She is prepared to mark the walls and make cave-maps to keep track of the branching pathways, but the tunnel only has one channel. It twists, dips, and climbs, but offers no alternate avenues to choose from. The walls are the same whitish granite-looking stone, but in the dark and illuminated by the eerie light of the fungus, they look green and slick.

_She’s lost track of how long it’s been-_

No.

Azra stops dead in her tracks. Some part of her urges her to brush off the creeping discomfort and keep going, but she knows that part isn’t real. She has spent far too long wandering Vex installations, fell too far in the Vault, suffered too much in her climb back out to not know her own thoughts. Azra Jax does not lose track of time easily.

Or rather, she has, so deeply and keenly, that she holds on with an iron grip.

But she’s lost it now. Though she can start counting seconds and stringing together her thoughts like a chain of daisies, it won’t matter. The difference between zero times and one time is infinite- the needle has already skipped the track. Azra feels a very familiar nausea roiling in her stomach.

 _Let’s go_ , Spark thinks, and Azra turns to- only to realize she has no idea which direction she’d come from. It’s as if all of her object permanence has been stripped away- both tunnels ( _or the same tunnel from different directions)_ look equally unfamiliar. She is struck with the odd terror that nothing exists outside of her gaze, that the world is in some superposition, collapsing into reality only when she observes it. That she’ll turn away from one pathway only for it to be replaced by another when she’s not looking.

 _You’re having a panic attack_ , Spark says.

She is. Her hands are shaking and her heart pounds loud in her ears. It’s so loud it drowns out everything else- or perhaps there is simply nothing left in the universe that makes sound. 

_Breathe_ , her Ghost commands. _Focus on that and it will get better_.

Even though she knows with absolute certainty that it won’t work (that’s how it always is, panic trumps logic every time), she breathes. She closes her eyes and focuses on how her Light echoes off of the walls.

Then-

* * *

_You are lost. For a brief infinity, you know nothing but this fact. This is not where you belong._

_Eventually knowledge drips down to you and you drink it like sweet fructose- you are here, in the vascular tissue of some giant plant. The plant is the universe, or perhaps just the City. You’ve gone adrift from your place and it is vital you find your way back to it. The knowledge that you belong somewhere, that there is a hole tailor-made for your soul, is comforting. It makes it all the more urgent that you find your home._

_You wander with a restless, frantic energy. This would be so much easier if you knew where you should go but you’ve forgotten what you are. Are you a petal, bright and alluring, communicating with minds unlike your own through scent and color and shape? Or a piece of the stem, maybe, straining in tension to keep the plant vertical? Perhaps you are a seed, ungrown potential waiting to spring forth._

_No, you are the thorn. Hadn’t people always called you sharp? And that is your purpose- to cause harm. Deal damage to any that seek to affect what you guard. You kill Fallen and Vex and Hive and Cabal alike. That is all you do, kill in the sake of preservation._

* * *

Azra stops, tasting the old doubts on her tongue like cloying corn syrup. It would be very easy to agree. Some part of her wants to (and this part is her, she knows). 

But Spark touches her thoughts, worried, and she knows better. She knows herself. She has been shaken to her core many times, stripped bare from all of her comforts, broken down and down until the universe found something unbreakable in her. She knows this self-defeating worry, she has traced it back to its roots and torn it out.

She knows that things are not so simple. She _does_ kill, and not just to protect, but she does so much more than that. She dances and laughs and learns. She not here in the Garden to kill every threat, but to scout, take the shape of the land and listen to its sounds and _know_ it. If she is indeed a thorn, then she is also the phloem that delivers nutrients and information. She is the roots that test the ground below, the leaves that spread in search of sunlight.

And she knows this, deep down in her core: she is more than the sum of her parts. She is more than what she has done and what has been done to her.

 _You are dead_ , a voice whispers _. A dead thing walking through a place of life_. A migraine is building behind her eyes. The sweet scent on the air has turned into the rich tang of rotting fruit. And still she has no idea which way is out. Her feet have carried her even further, but the walls remain unremarkable. Perhaps there is no ‘out’ anymore.

No. This is not like Earth or Venus or Mars. This is like the Vault of Glass. To adapt to this place is to be lost to it. Azra has to subvert herself, gather her willpower and demand the world change to suit her needs instead of the other way around.

She turns back and forces the word _backwards_ to have meaning. Simple directions will be her way out of this. Her Light burns like a star.

Suddenly, the mouth of the cave yawns before her. She steps out, squinting as her eyes adjust. The not-sunlight is very bright in comparison to the fungus glow. The air is just as stagnant, however. The flowers glitter with a recent rainfall.

She notices immediately that her beacons are gone. Maybe she’ll find a few broken shells on her way back, but their radio signals have fallen silent, leaving her adrift with no GPS. For a gut-wrenching moment, the scenery is unfamiliar.

Then Azra laughs, loud and long. The sound echoes and echoes and echoes until the air rings with it and the flowers ripple to its pattern. It’s going to take a lot more than that to get her lost now that she’s learned. She turns in the direction she instinctually knows the gate is in and fixes a feature on the horizon in her head.


	13. Night of the Hunter

We were sun-burned and shoeless kids  
It was the dead of July  
We were skipping stones in the failing light  
I smelled the fire place  
Although we were miles away  
We were infinite  
There was no time in those days

Summer Skeletons - Radical Face

* * *

September 13, 2872

It had all started with a cryptic message.

* * *

Andal Brask: Party. Tuesday. 29°30'57.2"N 147°42'28.2"W. ;)

* * *

Azra didn’t have much going on that day, so she figured why not? If it didn’t end up being her scene she could always just leave.

Still, some paranoia (it wasn’t not paranoia if it was useful, she had to remind herself) made her want to check out the place beforehand. Or maybe she was just bored. In any case, she found herself staring at an empty patch of Pacific Ocean at around 1pm local time. Andal’s coordinates had her smack dab in the middle of nowhere. There weren’t even any islands nearby. She flew her jumpship in lazy circles, wondering exactly what kind of prank he was playing.

It took her a good fifteen minutes to realize that Andal had never specified the coordinates were on _Earth_. A quick check with her maps revealed that 29°30'57.2"N 147°42'28.2"W was at the peak of a very prominent mountain on Venus.

But there wasn’t a party site at the mountain, either. There was a cache. A cache with a cheeky note (written in unfamiliar hand) and another set of coordinates. Those lead her to a cave on Mars, then an archive in Freehold, then a weird spire on Venus. 

Azra was having so much fun she almost forgot about the party. There was a clue in a dead zone so full of interference even the GPS failed and she had to navigate by her map alone. She had to go diving in a cenote for another.

Then one clue dropped her off in the middle of nowhere. While she’d been galivanting about the system, night had fallen on the Appalachian Dead Zone. She was in some unremarkable stretch of forest in the mountainscape. There was nothing. No tracks, no trail signs, no notes with hints, just the cooling night air.

Azra closed her eyes and listened. And though there wasn’t any sounds to be heard over the wind, she did _smell_ something. Just the barest hint of smoke. It grew stronger as the breeze picked up, so she followed her nose upwind. She paused to listen frequently. After a few minutes, she heard… something. Were those voices in the distance?

Azra had finally found the party. She hadn’t seen the fire because it was in a deep gully, hidden by foliage. She crested the ridge and watched for a few minutes below as figures talked, danced, gestured, lit by the roaring flames. It was hard to recognize anyone from the distance, but this had to be the right place.

Azra picked her way down the slope, social anxieties forgotten. Why she’d needed to go through a scavenger hunt to get here she had no idea, but she wasn’t about to complain. It had been fun.

The ground was slippery at the bottom of the valley (there was mud beneath the dead leaf cover). Azra would have normally paused to gather herself before approaching, but she was robbed of the opportunity when she tripped and slid the last few meters.

She stumbled into the light of the fire. A ragged cheer went up from those gathered- all Hunters, she noted. Azra was mortified for a second, all eyes on her-

Then everyone went back to their conversations.

Almost everyone. There were a few familiar faces in the crowd. Andal ambled over, drink in hand, hood thrown back. “Hey, you made it! Wasn’t sure you would.”

“Liar,” Cayde called from across the clearing. “You bet she’d get here before the night was up.”

“Didn’t mean I _knew_ ,” Andal countered, then turned his attention back to the young Hunter. “How long ago did you start looking?”

“Uh… four hours ago?”

Andal raised an eyebrow. “Scoping out the site early, I see. It’s not even dark in the Pacific yet.”

“I was bored.”

“You bored now?” Cayde asked as he also came over. He slung an arm over her shoulders and gestured. “Welcome to the cool kid’s club.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Azra asked. “With capital letters and everything? The Cool Kids Club?”

“No,” Andal sighed, “but it should be.”

“Only the cool kids get invites,” Cayde explained. “Only the good kids actually find the place in time. So here we’ve got ourselves a bunch of good, cool kids. That includes you, now.”

“Who arranged all of this?” Azra asked. 

Andal shrugged. “Someone from Dead End Cure, this time. Sometime tonight there’ll be a contest to see who has the honor next year. Speaking of honor, did you remember your party etiquette?”

Spark answered by transmatting two bottles of rum into his Guardian’s hands. She waggled them in a proud boast.

“Brought the good stuff, I see!” an unfamiliar voice said. “Though I don’t recognize you.”

Azra turned as a stranger approached. They were half a head shorter than she was, leanly muscled, with dark skin and a camouflage-patterned cape. Azra glanced for half a second at Andal, who shook his head.

“You’re going to have to do a lot of introducing tonight,” the Gunslinger said. He clapped her on her shoulder and wandered off to talk with Shiro and another unfamiliar Exo.

Message received: _you stand for yourself here, no help from me._

“I’m Azra Jax,” she said, transferring the bottles to her left arm so she could stick out her right hand. “My Ghost is Spark.”

“Name’s Puck,” the Hunter said, taking her hand and shaking it firmly.

“It suits you,” Azra said without thinking. They had a certain mischievous air about them. That didn’t stop Azra from immediately regretting opening her mouth. These were new people, she couldn’t go around saying whatever asinine thing came into her head first.

But instead of taking offense, the other Hunter just smiled. “Thanks! I picked it myself. I think I _have_ heard of you before, but I can’t recall when. You frequent the ADZ?”

“No more than anywhere else,” Azra replied. “Um. I did some stuff at Twilight Gap.” She really hoped it was that and not the _other_ thing people always recognized, but the other Hunter’s face remained contemplative.

Puck shook their head. “Fun story, actually. I was stuck on Venus that whole time. My ship got shot down and nobody could come pick me up. I don’t think that’s it.”

Azra realized she’d be having this conversation a lot tonight. She considered just leaving. Booze and a bonfire didn’t really outweigh hours of curiosity she’d have to entertain. “I’m the Arcstrider,” she said, aware of the weariness in her voice.

“Oh, yeah!” Puck’s eyes lit with recognition. “Say no more.” A pause. “Damn, aren’t you like, four?”

“Yeeeessss?” Azra said.

“Andal!” Puck barked. The Gunslinger ambled back over with Cayde and Shiro in tow. He was trying to suppress a grin and failing. 

“You didn’t break the rules, did you?” Puck demanded. “No hints.”

Andal bowed. “No, ma’amsiree. Just the starting coordinates. And a winky face.”

“I told you ‘sir’ is fine,” Puck sighed.

“I think mine is the more elegant solution,” Andal said with an air of superiority. “Rolls off the tongue. ‘Sir’ sounds like ‘zir’ and then we all get confused about how formal we’re being.”

Azra had already lost where the conversation was going. “I ended up staring at the Pacific Ocean for a while before I realized what was up,” she offered. “Also I have no idea what you’re arguing about.”

“Listen,” Puck said. “Zavala uses ‘sir’. _Sloane_ uses ‘sir’. Nobody is going around saying ‘him yes him’! It’s never going to get confused. Yours just sounds dumb.”

Azra turned to her Ghost for help, but he just did a shrug-twirl and floated closer to her shoulder. “I didn’t spend a lot of time with people before meeting you,” he whispered. “I have no idea either.” Puck and Andal continued their debate, to Azra's befuddlement.

“Somebody please explain it to the newbie before she gets an aneurysm?” Shiro interrupted. "She's turning red."

Puck turned to face her, dark eyes flashing in the firelight. “Okay, fine.” Azra knew that tone of voice. It was identical to the one she’d used earlier, a weary ‘let’s get this over with’. Puck spoke slowly. “So I’m not a ‘ma’am’.”

“You’ve made that very clear, _sir_ ,” Azra said. 

“I’m not technically much of a ‘sir’ either,” Puck explained.

Azra’s brain plugged the new information into her equation and threw up an error message in response.

Andal cackled. “I’m not sure we’re out of aneurysm territory, my fey friend.”

Azra held up her hands. “You just spent like two minutes _arguing_ -“

“I’m sure we could drag this on for another few,” Shiro said, “but let’s not. Puck uses ‘ze’ and ‘zir’. Andal always complains about honorifics because he likes smashing words together in terrifying new ways.”

“That’s it?” Azra said.

“There is no widely accepted gender-neutral honorific,” Andal said. “But _one day…_ ”

“Really trying to change the world, this one,” Puck muttered. Ze looked at Azra with a question in zir eyes. _Does this have to be a conversation?_

“Uh.. it suits you?” was all Azra could think of.

Andal grinned and nudged Puck with an elbow. Puck rolled zir eyes. 

Azra turned on her Gunslinger friend. “Your solution to the ma’am/sir issue was _ma’amsiree_?”

“It’s in beta,” Andal said. “Still working out the kinks.”

“It’s a wonder you haven’t come across this problem before if you’ve been running with him,” Puck said. “Referring to people in… _interesting_ ways is kind of his thing.”

Azra shrugged. “That’s the trick. I just don’t refer to people in general.”

“If it really bothers you, Puck, I’ll stop,” Andal offered. “I was getting the vibe that you liked that bit, but I’m always willing to be proven wrong.”

Puck just laughed. “As long as you don’t teach the newbies any bad habits.”

“I am sorry to inform you it is far too late for that,” Shiro intoned. “The _puns,_ Puck. They get so much worse when she’s around.”

“Well see if I share my liquor with you,” Azra groused. “I had to go into the City proper to get this stuff.”

Puck eyed the bottles she still cradled in her arms. “Well, since you brought _two_ , you deserve a present. Come on.” Ze swatted her shoulder until she moved to stand by a mostly-empty folding table. Puck vaulted easily on to the table and stood.

“Hey!” ze shouted, clapping zir hands once. All conversation died immediately. “Public service announcement! This,” ze gestured down to where Azra stood, frozen in shock, “Is Azra Jax. She’s an Arcstrider. Oooooo. Big mystery.” The Hunter waved zir hands in a spooky gesture, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Here’s the deal: if any of you bug her about it, she gets permission to stab you.” 

“She won’t stab anyone even if they bug her,” Cayde called. “She’s shy.”

“Then I give _Cayde_ permission to stab you,” Puck said blithely. Cayde made a silent gesture of celebration, which Puck ignored. “I just eliminated a lot of boring conversation. You’re welcome.”

“Is giving Cayde permission to stab people a good idea?” someone asked.

“Better not toe the line then, shouldya?” Puck waggled a finger, then jumped nimbly down from zir table. The hum of conversation resumed after a few seconds.

“Thanks,” Azra said.

Puck waved her off. “I’m the host, it’s my job. Drinks go over there. Ashton left to get pizza like _two godsdamned hours_ ago, you’re welcome to some whenever that gets here. No explosions or ordinance unless some Fallen show up. Be nice. No bothering Azra about being an Arcstider. That’s all the party rules as of now.” Ze fixed her with a stern glare. “Don’t make me add any more.”

There was a loud crack- a branch snapping under someone’s foot. A cheer went up as an unfamiliar Hunter walked into the clearing. 

“That’s my cue,” Puck said, giving a sly wink. “Have fun.” The Hunter strode off to welcome the next person to the party.

"Come on," Cayde urged. "I don't think you've been introduced to Mot Balek. I _have_ to be there to see that."


	14. Geometry of Power

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face  
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space  
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind

Windmills of Your Mind - Noel Harrison

* * *

“Whatcha readin’, V?”

A familiar weight draped over her shoulder. Veera sighed and tilted the book so Tapio could see the cover. She’d long since stopped questioning how he managed to get into her room (her _locked_ room) at odd times in the night.

“On Circles: Revised Edition,” Tapio read aloud. “Somebody wrote a whole book on circles?”

“Technically, this chapter is on spheres,” Veera said. “But yes.”

“Who cares enough about spheres to write a whole chapter about them? Not even to mention a whole book on circles? Geometry can’t be _that_ important.”

“The Traveler is a sphere,” the Warlock pointed out. “Your eyeballs are spheres. The Earth is a sphere.”

“It is an _oblate spheroid_ ,” Tapio said, sounding genuinely offended.

“See? You do care!”

Tapio flopped down on her bed. “I just know that because I pissed off Falstaff once.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “It’s a good point, though. Nothing’s _actually_ a sphere. Earth is spinning and the force of that pulls the equator out further than the poles. Smooshes it. Everything’s always a little lopsided. Even that machine-printed circle on the cover has flaws.”

“Just because something has not yet been achieved does not mean it is not worth striving for. We approach perfection.” Veera tapped the cover of the book. “A circle is just a polygon. A triangle has three sides. A square has four. A pentagon has five. You may continue this way, through hexagons and heptagons, octagons, nonagons, et cetera. As you add more sides, the shape gets more circle-like. A circle is simply a polygon with an infinite number of sides. The most complex shape.”

Tapio eyed the book for a moment. “Looks like it only has one side to me. Wouldn’t that make it the simplest one?”

“And that,” Veera said, “is why someone could write an entire book on them.”


	15. Live by the Sword

I get a thrill outta playing with fire  
Cause you hold your life when you hold that flame  
I get a kick outta thunder and lightning and  
Tearing through the night hollering your name

Hurricane - Lord Huron

* * *

September 04, 2954; Twilight Gap, Earth

Azra leaned and the blade missed by bare millimeters. It was taking all of her effort just to keep up with Shaxx, never mind beat him. He wasn’t _slow_ like Titans were supposed to be.

The next swordstroke she could not dodge, so she brought her own blade up. Solar and Arc crashed together with a shriek and a shower of sparks. She didn’t have the arm strength to push him back and disengage, so she slid to the side. She had to hit the deck as Shaxx’s uppercut whizzed by. She managed to get back on her feet while he checked his momentum, but then he was on her again, pressing her for her space.

“You fight a lot different than a Swordbearer,” she grunted.

“How so?” Shaxx didn’t even sound winded. He leveled a thrust at her abdomen. She stepped aside and threw an elbow into his face. The helmet protected him from the worst of the blow.

“They’re not fast. Or subtle. Their swords-“ she paused to block an overhand cut, feeling the impact in her bones. “They don’t thrust. Just swing.”

“And Crota fought the same way?”

* * *

_The air screamed against her exposed skin. Everything here was screams. The ground was suffering folded onto itself, the walls were dripping with pain and despair. And before her, a towering Knight, the realest thing in this place._

_The sword in her hand was death. She didn’t know if it was her own death or the Knight’s. Or both. Probably both. It seemed fitting._

* * *

She was hit with a blow, cleaving through armor and muscle alike. She rolled with the force of it and ended up face-up in the dirt. The pain was so intense for a second that it blinded her.

She didn’t have time to think. The strike had rendered her right arm useless. The sword went to her left hand as she reached for the Light. The Knight was on top of her, fast, too fast-

She rolled to the side. A blade sheared through the earth where she’d been just a millisecond earlier.

Then she was on her feet and the Arc hit her. The sword in her hand rang like a bell. She could feel every imperfection in the metal, how they stopped the Light from singing true, how the blade would shatter itself if she pushed even a fraction harder.

The Knight was struggling to free its weapon, stuck in the slow-motion of normality. Bolt-Caster in her hand shrieked like a Deathsinger.

That wasn’t a Knight. That was Lord Shaxx.

He freed Raze-Lighter from the clutches of the earth and rounded on her. She tried to find the words to tell him stop, but the Arc screamed too loud in her head and Shaxx was already bearing down on her (he had _no right_ to be that fast). She knew what to do. Even a glancing cut with Bolt-Caster would kill in this state.

But she didn’t want to kill Shaxx. For a moment she had; she’d looked at his outline and thought only of the best way to end him. Azra was not okay with crossing that line- the one between sparring with someone and trying to destroy them. Not when the air was still sparking with his genuine excitement and curiosity.

She hesitated, slowed by pain and indecision. She had enough wits to see the uppercut coming, but no more.

Then, fire and nothingness.

* * *

Her Ghost raised her on her feet. Lord Shaxx stood ready on guard, chin tilted up in challenge.

Azra shook her head and plunged her sword point-first into the earth. She pulled off her helmet to let the mountain air wash over her face. Shaxx lowered his blade in turn.

“You panic when you lose control," the Titan intoned. "You need to keep a level head, even when you’re losing."

“I forgot where I was.” Azra ran a hand through her hair to hide the shaking. “You asked me about Crota and hit me hard and I just acted on instinct.”

Shaxx eyed her critically. “I find it curious your instinct is to freeze,” he said, voice carrying doubt.

“My instinct is _death_ ,” she said, a little bitter. “It’s never going to be anything but that. But I’m… not comfortable with those intentions around people.”

“You must control your instincts, not the other way around,” Shaxx said, inclining his head in judgement. “Still. You are better than I expected. I did not think staff-work would translate to edged weapons that well.”

“I trained with the best,” Azra said. “Tevis got on the sword bandwagon centuries ago. Fencing with him always helped clear my head.”

“I would have liked the opportunity to spar with him,” Shaxx said. There was a tinge of regret on his voice, in the air- one which Azra pushed aside. Tevis was dead not three months now, but so much had changed- the Battle of Saturn, sneaking onto the Dreadnaught, killing Oryx, then _ending_ him in his throne world, that it seemed like it had been years. He wouldn’t have stood for the moping, anyway.

“In a way, you just did spar with him,” Azra said, rolling her newly-healed shoulder. “He taught me everything I know.”

“Not everything,” Shaxx said. “Never _everything_.”

Azra shrugged and picked up her blade. “Bet you a hundred Glimmer I win next round.”

“I do not bet,” Shaxx said, raising his sword again.

Azra’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Coward.”

When he witnessed Bolt-Caster’s true design (throwing Arc bolts from range, a subversion of the close-range combat swords were supposed to be used for) he laughed and handed over a hundred Glimmer.

* * *

She lost the next two bouts, but eked out victory on the fifth, which counted her two more wins than she had been expecting.

“Next time I will not go easy on you,” Shaxx warned as they climbed the stairs to the exit of the Crucible arena.

“That was you going easy? _Jesus_.” Azra was _sore_ , even though Spark had healed all of her injuries. Her ears still rung with the clash of metal on metal.

“Nevertheless, this has been enlightening,” Shaxx said. “I would very much enjoy a next time.”

Azra stretched her aching arms. Lord Shaxx was too loud and too enthusiastic, but he was smart, and he was honest. She figured she could get used to the noise. “I’m sure I can make some free time,” she said.


	16. Duality

Lonely is only a bad place to be  
If you're someone who can't stand your own company  
Yeah, but me and myself do just fine on our own  
There's a difference in lonely and bein' alone

Lonely and Being Alone - The SteelDrivers

* * *

“Just how close are you and your Ghost?” Ikora asks. Azra is strangely on edge today. Although she lounges in her chair, there is an edge of… not exactly anxiety, not exactly wariness, but something the opposite of comfort. Not enough for true fear, but enough to quicken the Hunter’s heartbeat by a little. A feeling of unsteadiness.

The Hunter is alone right now. _Alone_ alone. Her Ghost is nowhere to be seen. In her past discussions with Azra, Ikora has gotten the feeling she has only been getting half of the picture. So many thoughts pop into the Hunter’s head fully-formed. Sometimes an answer will be considered with nothing but buzzing static until Azra is saying words she shouldn’t have been able to string together without focus.

Not today. Today her thoughts are fully scrutable, normal, and whole, if missing something fundamental. Ikora had been worried about the Hunter and her lapses- but if the answer lay with the Ghost and not the Vault’s nonlinear time, she could rest much easier.

Azra shifts in her chair. “There’s some natural variance, right? We were already unusually close before. And then…” the Hunter trails off, thoughts going to that place- slick stone and icy mist, echoes and the whir of Vex machinery.

“I am not very close with my Ghost,” Ikora admits. “What is it like?”

Azra tilts her head. “Can’t you read my mind?”

“Yours? Yes. Your Ghost’s? Not so easily.”

Some flicker of _something_ catches Azra’s attention. _Talking about you_ , the Hunter thinks. _Well, about us._

Ikora can’t hear what the Ghost says in response. Azra sends some vague inquiry about what he’s doing. Ikora catches the barest flash of something- clean white concrete, green grass- then the Hunter sends the mental equivalent of a shrug.

She refocuses her attention on Ikora. The Warlock can read clearly what she’ll say before she says it- “Spark is on his way. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Ikora sends a mental prod at her own Ghost- he is probably in her library. She gets the sense that he is very absorbed in something. She could guess at what Ophiuchus is doing, but it would be only a guess.

She focuses instead on Azra’s thoughts when Spark arrives. She catches something of what the Ghost means to the Hunter- joy, belonging, home, safety, support. There’s something basic there, a fitting together of a mechanism, like two halves of a broken-heart pendant like the children of the City wear- _Best Friends Forever._

It’s more than that. It’s so much more than that. Ikora is left in the dust as a flurry of thoughts passes between the pair, only half of them audible, and only partway so. Azra’s mind speaks with another voice, but Ikora can only catch the echoes of what it says. The edge of disquiet is utterly erased.

The pair turn their eyes back on the Warlock Vanguard after only a few seconds. “You had questions,” Spark says

“Your neural symbiosis is very advanced,” Ikora said. “Perhaps the most I’ve seen. I was simply curious- where do you normally sit with each other?”

Azra shrugs. “I mean, we can ignore each other if we want. We just were. But sometimes it’s a lot more useful- he’s real good at not exactly _visualizing_ maps, but if he pulls up the file I can basically read it without a projection if we focus.”

“If we scout different directions,” Spark offers, “she doesn’t need to tell me what she sees. And when she’s injured I already know where it is.”

Ikora steeples her fingers. “Just how close can the two of you get?”

The Hunter and the Ghost make eye contact sidelong. Ikora gets a very one-sided flurry of debate before Azra settles on the answer of, “Real close.”

“On command?” Ikora asks. If their thoughts are confusing now, just how unreadable could they get? How far could they push it?

The Hunter dips her head. “It gets weird. And… kinda freaky, to be honest.” Azra is not uncomfortable with the closeness itself, but of the alienation. It is something fundamentally inhuman and she clings to perceptions of normalcy. She doesn’t want to be a curiosity.

Ikora shakes her head and folds her arms. “I am not here to judge.”

“Well, then,” the Hunter says. She can find no other arguments as to why not.

It happens fast. No meditation, no thought exercises, just a mental feeling of joining hands- and Azra’s mind slides _sideways_ almost. Ikora is confounded. She can read general feelings, but the specific thoughts- it’s like they have been passed through a filter or a cypher. There is nothing she can parse.

Azra’s eyes open. Spark’s eye blinks. “We can talk in unison, but that’s… disturbing,” the Hunter says. Not to them. Having one speak but not the other feels deliberate.

“I can’t read your mind at all, now,” Ikora says. “That’s…” interesting? Fascinating? But both of those words don’t mean the same thing to Azra as they do to Ikora. The Warlock settles on, "That's _cool_. Is it hard to stay like this?”

“Oh, it’ll fall apart eventually,” the Ghost says. “Our senses are different. Having limbs is strange to Spark.”

“And the whole EM thing is weird to Azra,” the Hunter says, picking up the sentence flawlessly from her Ghost. “And being this close… has its drawbacks. Everything’s a bit distracting, except what should be distracting. It’s more useful as a party trick.”

“Was it like this? In the Vault?”

Azra’s face goes stricken. Her shoulders hunch. Spark floats downward slowly. “The Vault-“ they whisper in unison.

They shake it off. “Yes,” they say. “it was.” Ikora can feel them struggle to place their tenses. The sense of loss hits Ikora like a truck. Loss, and grief, and unending loneliness, despair…

“It’s a hurt we share,” they murmur. “No cure for that here. Azra feels sometimes that she is too… different. Spark does not like being helpless. And normally we can comfort each other. But both of us have suffered that, so much. That’s _why_ we’re like this.” Their voices mix, inflecting so perfectly in unison Ikora cannot tell what is an overtone of one voice and the undertone of another.

They both look up, Azra’s eyes fierce, Spark’s shell set rigidly in place. “We had eternity with only us. In the same place, the same affliction, how could we not learn each other?" The agony rises like a crashing wave. "How could we _not_ -“ 

The Hunter shakes her head and stands abruptly. Something breaks and everything is back to normal. “There are downsides,” she says (just her, not her Ghost), “to being one person instead of two.” Her hands shake. Spark lights down on her shoulder, silent reassurance.

“I understand,” Ikora replied. “If you’re too upset, if you need to go-“

Azra wants to very strongly for a moment. She teeters on the edge of indecision, then sighs as if relenting under some heavy load. She sits back down and reaches for her mug of tea, grumbling under her breath about meddling Ghosts.

“He badgered you into it,” Ikora guesses.

Azra sips her drink, sweet fondness tinging her frustration. “He’s not so bad,” she murmurs. “Without him I’d be… well, dead, to start, but without him, specifically, I’d be a very pessimistic loner.”

“And without her, I’d be… forgotten,” Spark adds. “It’s a pretty sweet deal.”


	17. Cupid's Arrows

It started out as a feeling  
Which then grew into a hope  
Which then turned into a quiet thought  
Which then turned into a quiet word

And then that word grew louder and louder  
'Til it was a battle cry

The Call – Regina Spektor

* * *

TYPE: Transcript.  
DESCRIPTION: Conversation.  
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Cayde-6 [c6]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Tevis Larsen [tl]  
ASSOCIATIONS; ; Cayde-6; Crimson Days; Eriana-3; Lady Jolder; Larsen, Tevis; The Last City [Earth]; Lord Saladin Forge; Ning, Wei; Ruse, Alaia; Zavala  
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//  
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[c6:01]: Hey, what’s with the long face? We’re supposed to be cel-e-bra-ting! Lighten up!

[tl:01]: I’m not upset. I’m thinking.

[c6:02]: About what? Dead puppies?

[tl:02]: Them two.

[c6:03]: There are a lot of people in this bar, Larsen. You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific.

[tl:03]: That Titan in the blue. And over there, that Exo Warlock in the black.

[c6:04]: I know Wei Ning. Who’s the ‘lock?

[tl:04]: She’s a Praxic. I know you’ve heard of her, too. Goes by Eriana-3.

[c6:05]: Okay, why are you scowling at Wei Ning and Eriana-3? Who are, I must mention, sitting on opposite ends of the room?

[tl:05]: Crimson Days is only three months away. If we want them together by then, we’ll have to start now.

[c6:06]: Playing Cupid again?

[tl:06]: I like to guide the younger generations. Makes me feel less obsolete.

[c6:07]: You just like being right.

[tl:07]: When have I ever been wrong?

[c6:08]: If you’re so great a matchmaker, why is Lord Saladin still single?

[tl:08]: He’s still pining after Jolder. Easier to move the stars in the sky to make that man start seeing someone.

[c6:09]: Is that why all of the old-timers are wet blankets? Zavala still languishing after some lost Lenore? Are… are _you-_

[tl:09]: I pine for the days you didn’t ask me about my love life.

[tl:10]: But back Wei Ning and Eriana.

[c6:10]: Think they’ll be good together?

[tl:11]: Legendary.

[c6:11]: Well if it’s that simple, I’ll just wingman it-

[tl:12]: Won’t work.

[c6:12]: Why not?

[tl:13]: You go up to Wei Ning and tell her that Warlock in the corner think she’s cute, she’ll just say that the Warlock should speak for herself.

[c6:13]: And Eriana?

[tl:14]: She’ll just get flustered and wait for Wei to make another move.

[c6:14]: Eriana-3. Flustered.

[tl:15]: Matters of love can be intimidating. But Wei Ning won’t make that first move because she’s too obtuse.

[c6:15]: So what’s the plan, here?

[tl:16]: That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

[c6:16]: Sounds like Eriana has to make the move herself. But have they even met each other?

[tl:17]: If they have, it’s only in passing.

[c6:17]: Seems like you’ll need some divine intervention, there.

[tl:18]: Divine intervention…

[c6:18]: You got an idea?

[tl:19]: I have a starting point. Alaia Ruse owes me a favor or three. Maybe we’ll nudge the hand of fate. Stack the strike team generator.

[c6:19]: How romantic. Meeting the girl of your dreams while beating up the enemies of Humanity.

[tl:20]: Have you met either of them? It’ll work.


	18. Rift

And I can't stop 'til the whole world knows my name  
'Cause I was only born inside my dreams  
Until you die for me, as long as there is a light  
My shadow's over you 'cause I am the opposite of amnesia

Centuries – Fall Out Boy

* * *

 **Nadim Patel:** This will be a tournament to remember, folks! Never before has the Second Crucible League seen such triumph, such spirit, such drama! We sit on the eve of what is sure to be a historic match.

All week fans have been watching in awe as the reigning champions, Fireteam Bash, has juggernauted their way through the bracket! Though suffering some early setbacks, including a down-to-the-wire overtime win in round 2, the Pride of the Peregrine District seem to have found their stride, capping off the Semifinals with a devastating victory!

But our defending champions are only one half of the story. On the other side of the bracket, a contender no-one saw coming! Fireteam CPO was originally a wildcard pick, but they’ve become quite the darkhorse in this race, taking win after win against incredible odds.

By the time you will be watching this, we’ll be only half an hour from the starting whistle. But tonight, it is Final Round eve, and tonight we are lucky enough to have none other than Andal Brask, leader of Fireteam CPO, in the studio with us. Welcome, Andal, it’s great to have you here!

 **Andal Brask:** Thanks, Nadim, it’s good to be here.

 **N:** Now, Andal, before we begin, there’s a question I have to ask, one the fans have been begging us to ask all week.

 **A:** Ah, I think I know.

 **N:** What’s the deal with CPO?

 **A:** It’s an in-joke, actually. In the world of Vanguard operations, the five Hunters on our team are known as ‘The Crew’. That’s me, Cayde-6, Tevis Larsen, Shiro-4, and Azra Jax. But you can’t compete in Crucible tournaments with only five, so we brought in an extra. So CPO stands for Crew Plus One.

 **N:** And what a plus one he has been! Redrix-3 has been making a very big name for himself.

 **A:** What can I say? Kid’s a natural.

 **N:** Ah, but this is _your_ interview, Mr. Brask, your time to shine. Every team is only as good as its leader.

 **A:** Leader has to work with what they’ve got. Not gonna lie, I’m lucky to have a big pile of talent to work with.

 **N:** That last round in the Semifinals- what a nailbiter! Can you tell me what was going through your head going into it?

 **A:** Oh, I can tell you exactly what was going through my head. 

* * *

The Hunter jumped high, eyes flashing, then there was a whir and a snap and the sky fell.

Chayam had been on the receiving end of Shaxx’s Fists of Havoc enough times. This was a bit different. He should be dead. But only Carlo’s Ghost chirruped.

Strike that. With a spin, Joy-4 was down, too slow in fumbling for her shotgun. The Hunter rounded on Chayam.

He leveled his Auto Rifle on her and let loose. She spun her Staff in a circle, creating a forcefield of Arc that deflected his bullets. At least it kept her from advancing, for now. Until his magazine ran out.

Then he took a bullet to the shoulder. There, in the hallway, another Hunter was taking careful aim with his Hand Cannon.

Chayam spun to the side, reloading his gun with practiced efficiency. “Inside!” he cried into his comms. “They’re coming inside!”

The Hand Cannon barked again, then he was dead.

* * *

 **A:** Azra Jax is very useful as a distraction. She was the only one with her Super up, but she pulls that Arc Staff and everyone just loses it. So we send her inside, close-quarters, to draw their focus. Throw in Cayde for some mid-range support- he’s also very flashy- and you’ve got yourself a very convincing diversion. They couldn’t stand against a whole fireteam, but if they had to deal with a whole fireteam, that means we’d be in a good position to score.

* * *

Cyril peered down his scope. There were calls for reinforcements on the inside lanes, but he had a feeling there could be a second prong of the attack headed for the outside. The opposing team had shown some pretty unique tactics so far. He wouldn’t put it against them.

There! Movement at the end of his lane. He shifted the rifle against his shoulder, ready to fire at the first thing that came around the corner-

A bullet tore through his thigh. The deep boom of another Sniper Rifle echoed through the arena. Cyril faltered and turned for cover, but it was already too late.

* * *

Kovac paused to catch his breath. If he could flank a group of them, he’d be able to pull his Super and take their momentum away. Already his palms itched with Solar, ready to take the Gun and reduce his foes to ash. All he had to do was find them. There was red in his motion tracker ahead-

There was a stabbing pain in his back, then the cold steel of a knife at his throat, then nothing.

* * *

 **A:** Tevis is good enough to outsnipe the snipe and outsneak the sneak. So he had our backs for the first phase. Hopefully if everything went wrong, he could have his Tether up by the time the other team recovered the Spark and made it his way. The plan was then to have Azra and Cayde fall back on defense. Didn’t happen, obviously.

* * *

Joy-4 ran out of spawn. “It was a feint,” Carlo announced. “They’re already here!”

Too late for that announcement. 

A hail of Pulse Rifle fire took down Carlo. Cyril was also hit and had to dive back into cover.

As soon as the clatter of bullets stopped, Joy-4 turned back around her corner and aimed down her sights. But there was nobody there-

 _Up_ , her brain told her. She had just enough time to look up and see the Titan flying above her let go and drop.

* * *

 **A:** Shiro-4 was our spark carrier, with me as backup. Didn’t really need me much in the end, I was just there in case Shiro got taken down, provide extra covering fire until then. But that didn’t happen.

* * *

‘Bedlam’ seemed too calm a word. There was screaming, there was gunfire, and behind all of it, the crash of armor against armor. Their fireteam was being pushed back relentlessly- it was give ground or die. Three of their party were still tangled up with the Arcstrider and the Gunslinger, too far away to help.

Cyril would normally take a 3v3. Even odds. Even odds didn’t matter when you had a battle-mad Titan charging through your spawn. He was fast and he hit brutally hard. Even the bullets Cyril piled into him didn’t seem to slow him. The Titan leapt into the air. Cyril saw death.

It all happened too fast. Unseen, unnoticed, a short Exo slid in and deposited the tiebreaker point.

The rift ignited behind Redrix-3, turning him into an imposing silhouette as the victory announcement played.

* * *

 **A:** Like I said, kid’s a natural. I just let him do his own thing most of the time.


	19. Prey

Every book is read,  
I’m paralyzed.  
Every fist is clenched,  
But I’m so tired.

Volatile Times – IAMX

* * *

January 05, 2878; near Old Cancun, Mexico, Earth

Four Hunters sat. Even low-light vision couldn’t pierce cave darkness- they saw by the dim light of their Ghost’s eyes. It was very cramped in their small crevice. No matter how they arranged themselves, there was never enough room for comfort. The tension in the air was so thick it was palpable. It was nearly silent, except-

_Clickclickclickclickclickclick_

It was a show of incredibly poor trigger discipline from Azra. Andal figured it was a combination of a lot of things- obviously, the situation wasn’t great, and Shiro wasn’t in contact. On top of that, they were all almost completely out of ammo. Azra had no bullets for her sidearm; that’s why she was pulling the trigger as a fidget.

“ _Sh_ ,” was all he had to say, the barest exhalation, and the clicking stopped. The Fallen were on the prowl. It was unlikely that any of their instrumentation could pick up the noise, but it wasn’t impossible.

He sighed and flicked his pointer fingers towards the cave mouth. _Go_. Azra made no question. She scrambled for the exit and was gone.

Andal didn’t have to look to see Tevis’s judgement. _Shiro should be back by now_ , Andal signed. He didn’t dare raise his voice.

The Nightstalker said nothing in return. They all went back to listening, tense. Their only warning might be the scrape of claws on stone, the sizzle of a shock blade-

None came. They’d hidden themselves well. But that’s what they were doing- hiding, while above House Winter howled for their blood. Backed into a corner like rats. And Andal had no more plans left.

There were _so many_ Fallen looking for them. They’d really kicked the hornet’s nest this time. There was absolutely zero chance the Crew could take them all. It just wouldn’t happen. Andal wouldn’t dream of it even if they had time, ammo, the element of surprise, and a squad of Titans on their hands. They had none of those things. 

The force needed to rout the enemy from the area would take days to organize. Calling for backup wasn’t a viable strategy. By the time anyone would get here, Andal and his pack would be long dead. Connecting to the City network would just bring the Fallen down on them all the faster. Their ships couldn’t get through the artillery. Trying to sneak away, even with Tevis and Shiro and Azra taking shifts to keep a cloak up, would be bound to fail. Andal just…

He didn’t know what to do. He could only sit and wait for the Fallen to find them and pray that Shiro would come through with some miracle. It was a starkly humbling experience. Andal was used to being the hunter, not the hunted. At worst an unwelcome visitor, a happenstance, not something to be known and hated and tracked with purpose. The knowledge that House Winter was screaming for his death, _Andal Brask’s_ specifically, chilled his blood a little.

And he was helpless. There was nothing he could do, no plan he could make. The only information he had pointed towards doom.

So he sat and listened and prayed. His mind went in circles, each loop a little more bleak. No escape, no way to fight and win, no way to improve his chances. Nothing.

Azra’s return was heralded by the arrival of her Ghost. He appeared in realspace, startling all of them. At least they knew not to shoot when Azra’s form shimmied awkwardly through the small tunnel.

The Arcstrider wasted no time, firing off a rapid flurry of military hand-signs. She tapped a letter S on her helmet where her eye would be, made a plucking gesture, then held one hand palm-down and traced her other pointer finger from wrist to fingertip _. Shiro found an escape_.

She quickly shook her had and spread her hands, negating her own phrasing. _Shiro found a cave,_ she clarified. _We don’t know where it goes_. _It has not been mapped. No signs of Fallen._

Miracle enough. It was better than trying to navigate past the predators on the surface and a damn sight better than huddling in their crevice and waiting to die.

 _We will follow_ , Andal replied. _Go._


	20. Little Prince

I talk in my sleep  
In a language you don't speak  
The room, it echoes clear  
With words we choose not to hear

I Talk In My Sleep – The Crane Wives

* * *

April 16, 2871; Meridian Bay, Mars

Out of all of the Guardians, he just happened to be sharing a bunker with a loud one.

Her thoughts dominated the space. Her senses screamed out for danger from every direction, from _him,_ even. Why would he be a threat to her? He’d saved her life- on impulse, mind you, to pop out from cover, grab her arm, and drag her into the bunker before the Cabal shells made their way from orbit.

Yet still she side-eyed him, mind screaming distrust. She spoke casually enough. “You know, I haven’t hung out with many Corsairs, but you don’t strike me the type.”

Death raining down outside and she was making _small talk_.

“Don’t you know when to be quiet?” Uldren hissed. The Guardian shot him a confused look, shook her head, and moved to peek out the entrance tunnel.

“There is still an artillery strike happening outside,” Uldren reminded her. “You will get yourself killed.”

She took the possibility of death with a mental shrug. “I want to see what’s out there.”

“Why don’t you stick your entire head out of the bunker? Or better yet, take a jaunt to the observatory? It’s the third building on the left.”

She actually memorized it. She nodded to herself, muttered “Observatory, okay,” under her breath, and considered the path to the structure. “Dying is usually unpleasant, you know,” she said out loud. 

_Unpleasant_. Like a bad smell or a slightly off piece of bread.

“Remind me to not bother saving your life next time,” Uldren muttered.

“Didn’t I say thank you?” the Guardian replied. She paused for a second. “ _Did_ I say thank you?” She hadn’t. “Damn. Thank you. Had no idea the Cabal would call down a strike on their own base.”

“You aren’t scanning their radio feeds?”

She looked back at him, interest as sharp as knives. “You _are_?”

Uldren shrugged, effecting easy confidence. “Their encryption protocols are incredibly basic.”

The Guardian shook her head and returned to her survey of the still-being-bombed Cabal encampment. “More used to Fallen systems,” she admitted.

Uldren didn’t bother replying.

A salvo of fire shook dirt from the ceiling. Uldren kept himself very firmly in the corner, under the support beams. His radio howled with magnetic interference.

Reluctantly, the Guardian made her way back into the bunker proper. “I don’t think it’ll let up anytime soon. I’d offer you a transmat out, but those munitions are disrupting signals something fierce.”

Nothing he didn’t know already. And still she considered him like he might take out his sidearm and shoot her for spite. (In all honesty, he was considering it. Her mind screamed out impatience and anxiety in a way that tinged the air with acid.)

“Not a Corsair,” she said (mostly to herself), “Not a civilian. What are you? Some sort of Awoken Shadowjack? Stealth-Corsair?”

He relented, if just to have her shut up. “I am the Prince of the Awoken, Uldren Sov, brother to queen Mara Sov,” Uldren spat.

She considered him with a raised eyebrow and not an ounce of reverence. “I’m Azra Jax. And you're too short to be Prince Uldren.“

He was shocked. "Am I," he growled.

"You're supposed to be-" she began. Then she stopped. Exasperation hit her like a Pike. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I'm sorry. Cayde told me you were like six-foot-four," she said. The exasperation was turning quickly to mortification. "He’s going to die in a fit of laughter when I get back. Given I don't stab him first.”

_When_ she gets back. Not an _if_. Maybe that’s what annoyed Uldren the most: not the bumbling, indelicate thoughts, not the casual disregard for the way things were supposed to work, but that _assurance._ She was trapped in a bunker while Cabal artillery thundered outside, on the front lines of their war with the Vex, where death waited at every corner, and she did not have to consider the fact that she might not make it home. It was a guaranteed thing. Death was but an unpleasantry, the destruction outside but an inconvenience.

“Yeah, you’re upset,” the Guardian muttered to herself. “I’m… going to go shut up and sit in that corner now.”

“ _Please_ ,” Uldren said.

There was a solid five minutes of blessed quiet.

Then, the Guardian’s curiosity got the better of her. “Do all Awoken Princes go scouting around warzones or is it just a _you_ thing?”


	21. Oathkeeper

And they'll tell you I don't care anymore  
And I hope you'll know that's a lie  
'Cause I've found what I have been waiting for  
But to get there means crossing a line  
So I'm crossing a line

Crossing a Line - Mike Shinoda

* * *

August 24, 2876; Inner System Space

Azra floated in the weightlessness of space. Weightlessness was a lie. You are at all times under the effect of something’s gravity- the difference is if you feel it or not. Azra did not feel it because she was drifting, already caught and falling in the asteroid’s pull.

Asteroid-hopping was fun. Normally jetpacks weren’t very useful, but it was easy to escape the weak gravity of the asteroid belt. It reminded her of rock climbing in a way, moving from handhold to handhold, gravity well to gravity well. 

Her chosen asteroid was big, but not big enough to naturally put out the force that grasped at her. She hit the ground hard. Soft dirt was kicked up in her wake, hanging in the air for just a second too long. Someone had set this hunk of rock up with artificial gravity, though only about half of Earth’s, and had given it an atmosphere and cultivated the rock into farmable soil.

They hadn’t chosen to farm it, though. Azra stood before a forest of young trees. Their leaves lifted a bit too high, branches perfectly still in the unstirred air. They were Earth species- cottonwoods and white-trunked aspen. 

They were enough to hide someone. Azra brushed the dirt from her knees, looked up, and was suddenly staring death in the eye.

Well, she was looking down the shaft of an arrow laid on a very impressive bow by a very impressive woman. She had been waiting in cover- active camo, probably, the tree trunks were thin- and had stepped out when Azra had turned her attention away.

The woman’s skin had the Awoken blue tint and her eyes were like moonfire on ice. She was _tall._ Taller than Shaxx, even. "You're trespassing on Awoken territory, Guardian," the woman called out in a rough alto. "Declare yourself."

Azra put her hands up and flicked through her HUD to turn on her external speakers. “My name is Azra Jax,” she announced. “I’m scouting for the Vanguard, I didn’t know I’d crossed into Awoken territory.”

A truth and two lies. Kind of. She was here for her own mapmaking efforts. The Vanguard hadn’t sent her. And she’d known she’d be intruding on Awoken territory at some point, but she didn’t know where the exact border was.

The Awoken woman didn’t lower her bow. It was tall as the woman was, massive limbs pulled back with such force Azra fancied she could hear reality creak with tension. No doubt that arrow would punch through her armor like wet paper. Bulletproofing didn’t work so well against edged weapons.

“Alright,” she admitted, meeting the Awoken’s icy eyes. “I’m not here for the Vanguard, I’m scouting for fun, though I’m sure they’d take any map data I gave them. I genuinely don’t know where the border is.”

The woman’s voice was cool with a thinly-veiled threat. “This asteroid is part of our claim. The one behind you is not.”

Azra didn’t turn to look at the lifeless rock floating a few hundred meters away. “Ah, so the border is _here_ ,” she said.

The Awoken woman had impressive arm strength. The arrow-point never wavered, even though the draw weight of the bow must have been incredible.

“There’s no need for violence,” Azra said. “I didn’t- and I still don’t- intend harm on you or your people. I was just exploring.”

“Then leave,” the woman demanded. “You are not welcome here.”

“Well, what about _next time_?” Azra said.

The woman lowered her bow, though Azra didn’t doubt she could have it at full draw in a heartbeat. “If you enter our territory again, I will kill you.”

“I don’t know what’s your territory and what’s not!” Azra exclaimed. “That’s why I’m _here_. This entire region is so poorly mapped because nobody knows what’s fair game and what’ll get you in trouble!”

“You are here for _maps?”_ the woman said incredulously.

Azra crossed her arms. “I’m not here to screw spiders.”

“I know your kind,” the woman said. “You would cross the border willingly even if you knew where it was.”

A correct assumption, Azra had to admit. “At least I’d be _discreet_ about it. But like, the whole reason you have borders is to keep threats out. I’m no threat to the Awoken. I don’t see how me standing on this asteroid as apposed to that one hurts anything.”

“You Guardians change everything you touch,” the Awoken woman said.

“And you don’t?” Azra challenged. “Last time I checked, asteroids don’t have trees growing on them.”

The Awoken woman didn’t respond. She frowned and fingered the fletching on her arrow.

Azra set aside her frustration and her fear. “Listen. Until you claim the whole asteroid belt, you can’t get upset at me for accidentally hopping onto the wrong rock.”

The woman shook her head. “You knew you would enter our space eventually, but you didn’t hesitate.”

“Can’t find the line ‘till you cross it,” Azra said. “Old Hunter saying.”

The woman paused, reaching for an inside pocket on her jacket. If Azra were to make a move, it would be now, when her opponent only had one hand on the bow.

She let the moment pass. The woman pulled a datachip clear and turned it between her fingers. “How can I be sure you will keep your word? Not just abandon a deal when it suits you?”

The woman was talking about deals now. This was good. Maybe Azra wouldn’t have to spend the next couple of days crossing lines and getting shot with arrows. The Arcstrider spoke with conviction. “Your word’s the only thing you have. Things break, people die, places change, but your word- your honor, is the only thing that will always be with you. I don’t break promises.”

The woman seemed to come to a decision. “I will give you a map of the asteroid belt, up to the border of our space but no further. In return, you will swear to never cross that border uninvited.”

Very tempting offer. Azra eyed the datachip, a war raging in her head. On one side, being banned from somewhere was a steep price to pay. She did not do well with interdictions or exclusion zones. On the other hand, _map data_ …

Azra approached the warrior slowly. She was taut as her own bowstring, eyes lit, expression challenging but wary. Azra was careful to keep her movements even and her hands far from her weapons.

She stopped a few feet away. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Sjur Eido,” the woman replied smoothly. “Queen’s Wrath.”

Azra stuck out her hand. “Sjur Eido, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Sjur looked at her outstretched arm like it was sharp, but grasped the datachip in her bow hand so she could accept Azra’s handshake.

“On my word, never broken, and my knife, never dull,” Azra intoned. “If you give me a clear, readable map of exactly where your borders lie, I won’t willingly cross them without permission.”

Sjur Eido nodded, let go of her hand, and held out the chip. Spark appeared in realspace to take it.

Then, like a child on the Dawning who couldn’t wait to open their present, the Ghost turned sideways and projected the map in the air. As promised, there was the thin, well-defined line of the border. Everything past it was empty blankness. Everything _outside_ , though…

“Oooh,” Azra cooed. “This is _good_.” The individual asteroids and shipwrecks were as detailed as Azra would have made them. They even had relative velocities and masses labeled, so the map could be extrapolated and altered as the asteroid belt continued its messy rotation. “We’re friends now,” Azra declared.

“Friends?” Sjur said, sounding a little appalled.

“Yes. You gave me a map. A _good_ map. We’re friends.”

“I did not agree-“

Azra waved her off. “You will take my transponder code and you will like it. I’m not good with penpals, so don’t expect letters or anything.”

“…Friends.” The Awoken woman still didn’t sound impressed.

“It’s too late, I like you.” She poked at the projection. “This has a map of _Pallas_ , too? ‘Like’ is too weak a word.”

“Don’t you have an oath to keep?” the Awoken woman said dryly. Azra looked up and saw what might have been a hint of humor in her eyes.

The Arcstrider performed an informal salute. “Right. I should go. Pleasure meeting you, Sjur Eido. Genuine.”

She jumped high so her jetpack wouldn’t blow the dirt away and drifted, weightless, out of Awoken space.


	22. Iron

And oh, you can feel like a fish out of water  
And oh, like the world's come to rest on your shoulders  
And you know that you should, that you could, but you wouldn't  
Let everything fall  
And you know these lonely games that you're playing?  
You know they're not games at all

Good Morning - Amber Run

* * *

February 04, 2955

It was not odd to find Azra Jax in the Iron Temple. She had been a regular visitor these past few months. Normally she blended in quite well- sticking to corners and unobtrusive places. It reminded Saladin of Gheleon in a way. Always seen in the corner of your eye.

The way she occupied the hallway now was _wrong_. It was too obvious. She stood there, hood thrown back, an anxious, almost pained expression on her face. She cleared her throat, shifted her weight, carefully rearranged her hands and feet like someone meticulously laying out the pieces of a gun. 

“Listen, I don’t… I don’t think I belong in the Iron Lords.” Her voice was resolute, her consonants crisp and considered.

“Perhaps this is a conversation you’d like to have in private,” Lord Saladin offered after a moment’s consideration. She nodded acquiescence in a jerky motion, so he led her through the Temple to the sanctum. Both of their footsteps echoed off the marble, which was telling. Only very distracted Hunters walked with much noise.

Eventually, they were in the sanctum with the doors closed firmly behind them. Azra kept her eyes on the ground, as if she couldn’t bear meet the gaze of the statues. “Veera made me promise to come back and explain, instead of doing that thing where I make people uncomfortable so they stop asking questions.”

Saladin crossed his arms. “Explain, then.”

She took a deep breath in. Let it out. Finally, almost resolutely, she raised her face up to make eye contact. “I… I don't think I'm a good fit for the Iron Lords. I didn't pick 'Azra' 'cause I thought it would sound good with 'Lady' in front of it.”

Nonsense. “You deserve it,” Saladin said with conviction. “I have seen you grow, Guardian. I've had my eye on you since Twilight Gap. You are someone I would be proud to call a comrade.” 

But it wasn’t an issue of self-worth. Azra shook her head. “I don't want it. I never wanted to be a legend, or a savior.” _I never wanted to be different_ , her eyes said.

“I'm afraid it's too late for that,” Saladin said, trying to keep humor in his voice. She was one of the most renowned Guardians of her time. ‘Iron Lord’ would be far from the first title she’d bear.

Azra’s face was bleak, still. “I’m not up for the responsibility.”

“You have proven that I can trust you to have my back in battle. Both Shiro and Veera trust you well. If I called, wouldn’t you come to help?”

“It’s not that,” the Hunter said. “Fame… you carry everyone’s hopes on your shoulders. You become famous, everyone thinks they own a part of you. There’s _expectations_. Now if you act a certain way, you’re letting people down. And that means that I can’t be true to myself. I can’t be the person they need me to be. And I can’t be ‘Lady Jax’. That’s not who I am.”

Lord Saladin contemplated her figure. She was taller than average for a Hunter, long and steady in limb. Her short hair was stuck up in that particular way most hunters had from wearing hoods. Her face was haggard, and her eyes were back on the floor. She was ashamed.

“All I ever wanted,” Azra said, “was to do some good, have some laughs, and sleep easy at night. I don’t need reverence; I already have that in spades. In fact, I’d pay good glimmer to have the public forget I existed.” She wrung her hands. “I shouldn’t be an Iron Lord. You all… you’re devotion. And inspiration. And I can’t sit still and I hate renown. I’m glad to have helped you, but this… the title, the sword, it’s too much. I can’t live my life for this and I didn’t go this far for the fame.”

Saladin came to a decision. “We didn’t forge the Iron Lords for the respect. Would you wait here a minute? It will be worth it, I promise.”

It was a quick trip to the armory. Lord Saladin knew exactly where to find what he was looking for. A few minutes later he returned to the sanctum with pair of keys in his hand. They were dull, cast iron, with some glittering bits at the teeth and handle. He ran them through his fingers.

“We made the Iron Lords to protect Humanity and its future,” he said. “We knew we would be stronger in numbers. No one person could face the Darkness alone. A single link does nothing, but a chain…” The keys clacked together.

He stared her in the eye. She needed to know this. “You don’t need to take a title or swear any oaths. You’ve already proven yourself. You’ve demonstrated your willingness to fight for the good of Humanity, no matter the cost. There is nothing more Iron Lord than that. You deserve these.” 

He tossed the keys high. The Hunter caught them automatically, turning them over in her hands to study their gleaming facets. “We forged the walls here to be strong,” Saladin said. “Not even a Prime Servitor could break through our doors. And those are the only keys in existence to one of the rooms here. If you need it, you have a place.”

She looked displeased somehow, but she always looked like that when deep in thought. Saladin placed a hand on her shoulder. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re an Iron Lord, whether you fight the Devil Splicers on Earth or the Hezen Corrective on Venus. Whether you take a title or not, whether you tell anyone or not. You’ve already leant us your strength. Now let us lend you ours.”

She looked up from examining her keys and met his gaze. Her face had cleared- no shame, no thoughtful frowns. There was a fire behind her eyes. “If you call,” she said, voice like steel, “I’ll come.”

“If you need someplace to come back to,” Saladin promised, “We’ll be here.”


	23. Wastelands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: some psychological horror (but not much).

An ill wind comes arising  
Across the cities of the plain  
There's no swimming in the heavy water  
No singing in the acid rain

Distant Early Warning – Rush

* * *

The Manhattan Nuclear Zone is not someplace you go lightly. The necessary use of specialized equipment- shielding armor, radiation detectors, a rebreather- serves to keep the casual wanderer away. But there are reasons people go in.

So let’s say you’re hunting down a Golden Age relic, or the Vanguard has need for a scout, or the prey you’re following has gone to ground nearby- or maybe you just lost a bet. In any case, your preparations are the same. You hook up your rebreather, checking, then double-and-triple-checking the seals and the backpressure system. You meticulously put on your shielding- part hazmat suit, part lead-lined onesie. The helmet is clunky and obscures your vision, but it’s necessary. You slip whatever guns you’ve decided to sacrifice into their holsters.

Then you start walking.

You might tune into a City radio frequency as you walk. You will listen as the static builds until it drowns out the weekly Crucible recap. The official Vanguard channels last longer, but they will only penetrate so far into the Zone. Then you are left without outside contact.

It takes a few minutes for your Geiger counter to start clicking in earnest, but once it does it won’t stop. You might have the urge to shut it off- it’s not like you don’t _know_ you’re walking through an irradiated wasteland- but your Ghost insists. There are things here so radioactive even your suit can’t handle them, and the Geiger counter will be the only warning that you’re approaching one.

Nothing moves in the Zone proper. If you’re tracking prey, you will skirt the edges, trying to see where they left or pick up a trail to confirm your quarry went inside. If you do, you might as well pack up and head home. Anything foolish enough to enter doesn’t survive long. There are no plants to rustle in the breeze, just stubborn and twisted lichens and moss. Even the birds don’t dare fly overhead.

That leaves only the ominous clicking of your Geiger counter and the howling static for company. The rig you’ve got on echoes the sound of your breathing back loud in your ears. The wind whistles eerily through the remains of skyscrapers. They hum at odd frequencies, like giant, hair-raising flutes. Giant’s bones.

And you must move carefully. Even the tiniest rip in your suit is death. Death, you have dealt with before, but radiation is not something so easily shrugged off. You’ve heard stories (everyone has) of people dying over and over again, caught in loops of resurrection and irradiation and organ failure. You could crawl your way out, but you don’t want to think of how many rezzes it would take.

Even worse, if you get stuck somewhere, how long would it last? Maybe you’re lucky and you have people who would come looking for you. How would they find you through the interference? Would you sit for days, weeks, in the bottom of a hole too deep to scale in one lifetime’s worth of strength?

If you find your relic, you’ll have to dismantle it. You could scan it here or take it elsewhere, but the original pieces must be disposed of. You could toss them into the ocean where the water will shield everything from the radiation, or you could throw them into a volcano and let the Earth deal with it. Either way, the only way for you to get your new gun is to make blueprints and craft the weapon from scratch. Nothing from the Nuclear Zone is fit for the lives outside of it.

If you’re scouting, you will make your way through the ruins with speed and caution. There is no need to poke around inside computer systems- any technology has been thoroughly fried in the centuries of bombardment. You make your maps, check up on landmarks or data-gathering patrol beacons. Maybe you take a few samples for the scientists back in the City, locking them away in hard-cased containers. They’ll have to go through several rounds of decontamination before they can head off to whatever lab has requisitioned them. But you do what has been asked of you and waste no time in leaving.

If you’ve lost a bet, you won’t spend long here. You’ll go find the tower you were told to, leave something there or take it. There are a few walls with names scribbled on them- Cyril was here, so was Maeve- marks from tests of bravery. You might add yours to them. Maybe your friends wait in the dilapidated buildings, biding their time to jump out and scare the life out of you. Maybe you’re left isolated with the eerie wind and the static. Frankly, getting scared by your friends is the better option. At least you’re not alone, then.

Maybe you do tear your suit and have to limp your way out. Maybe you come across something too radioactive, or one of the seals on your rebreather fails, or maybe you just stay a little too long, and you have to spend the next while feeling like death without actually experiencing it. Maybe you do everything right and you get to put your suit in storage and throw away your irradiated tools and go back to your job.

But whyever you came, however you left, it’s not someplace you forget easily. You might have a few nightmares. You might not. But it’s very hard to look at the desolate wasteland and not imagine a few alternate futures. The legends say the world used to teeter on the brink of nuclear annihilation- you’re glad nobody ever pushed the button. One Nuclear Zone is enough.


	24. Not Forgotten

And death is at your doorstep,  
And it will steal your innocence,  
But it will not steal your substance.

But you are not alone in this this,  
And you are not alone in this,  
As brothers we will stand and we will hold your hand,  
Hold your hand.

Timshel – Mumford and Sons

* * *

September 22, 2950; The Last City, Earth

Azra had been to the gathering a few times before. A couple times after Alaia died, and once for Kauko, however aggravating he had been.

She’d never wanted him dead. None of them wanted their Vanguard dead. Yet there were nine plaques here where the Warlocks and the Titans had one each. Longstreet and Ainsel Leagh had managed to make it out alive (though neither lived long, in a cruel twist of fate). That left Tallulah Fairwind, Caliban-8, Cherib-22, Theron-5, Alaia Ruse, and Kauko Swiftriver on the death toll.

And Andal Brask.

It was unfair.

She didn’t say much. Other people did the talking- telling stories, speaking of their characters, whispering condolences. A lot of people came up to Azra and Cayde (he’d refused to take his arm from her shoulders for even a second, like he was trying to shelter her from the world). They’d put a hand on her elbow or stand eye-level with her and say things- _he was a great man, he’d be proud of you, we’re all sorry for your loss._

There were not many things all Hunters agreed upon, not many traditions everyone held. Traditions were as ephemeral as the winds- out in the wilds many frivolous things died and you had to find your peace and hope where you could. Everyone lived different lives. But they all had been touched by the Vanguard (or had been helped by people who’d been touched, at the least). They all felt the loss when the chair was empty, they all knew how vital a job it was. You could see how much of a burden it could be- if not in the eyes of those who filled it, then in the list of names on the ground. 

So every Hunter, even those far-flung, felt an abiding appreciation for their Vanguard. An obligation, a loyalty. The Vanguard sat in the Tower and forsook the good life for all of them- how could they not come when their leader called? Who else set the patrol schedules, made sure the reports made it to the right people, championed their causes and supported the new kids?

That obligation extended after death. Nobody would ever forget those nine names. No newbie Hunter would ask ‘Who was Caliban-8?’ and not get an answer. Every year on the Spring Equinox, they would gather and tell stories. There were lots of new Hunters, wide-eyed and blown away by the legends, here to learn. There were lots of old Hunters, wearing respect for those who’d come before, feeling the years of service bestowed onto them weigh like a burden.

And then there were mourners, like Azra. Some of them were old friends, lovers, or just acquaintances with fond memories. They told stories and reminisced in their mutual affections.

Or they stared at the plaques and felt lost. Azra had done her best to put aside her grief, but it still reared its head sometimes, just as fresh and cutting as the first time she’d heard the bad news. She’d gotten used to it now. The hole never filled in, but she learned to work around it, find joy despite of it, breathe though the waves of sorrow until they were behind her again.

It was comforting to know Andal wasn’t going to fade. Even if everyone who’d ever known him died, the stories wouldn’t. New Hunters would learn about him like she’d learned about the people-wise, good-humored Tallulah or the too-clever-for-their-own-good Longstreet or the quiet and contemplative Theron-5. He’d be an old friend to the Hunters until there were no more Hunters.

So people stopped by to say a few words and she managed to put an expression on her face that wasn’t abject misery. Cayde helped- he was warm and distracting and very, very _present_. She needed a little _here and now_ , not the painful past or the uncertain future (would she stand here one day and tell stories about a dead Cayde? Would- Traveler forbid- people someday gather here and tell stories about _her_?).

But for now, Cayde was here and she was here and Andal, in a way, was still here. That would be enough.


	25. What's Inside?

Yeah, tomorrow I might wake up nice and clean  
And I might believe the things I said I didn't mean  
And this might turn and wind up just the way we'd dreamed  
And I might become the things I swore I'd always be

We’re on Our Way – Radical Face

* * *

December 25, 2954; The Last City, Earth

Cayde set the box on the table with a flourish. Azra crossed her arms and glared at him.

“Cayde. I told you-“

“Hup up up!” He waggled a finger. “I don’t care.”

“I’m not-“

“Don’t. Care.”

Azra had told everyone that had asked (and a few people who hadn’t) that she was _not doing_ Dawning this year. She didn’t have time to hunt down presents, not with the Dreadnaught to explore and the Taken War to fight across the whole system. She didn’t need a bunch of kitschy junk cluttering up her vault.

Unfortunately, it seemed some people were too stubborn to get the memo. Cayde nudged the box closer, a challenging look in his eye. “I didn’t get you anything,” Azra complained.

He pantomimed checking his wrist for a watch. “Oh, what time is it? It’s… _my God_ , it’s I-don’t-care-o’clock!” He tapped his imaginary watch and held it to his ear to listen for imaginary ticking. Azra rolled her eyes. Cayde sighed and gave up his charade. “Listen, Jax, I know you’re not the holiday type. But you deserve a break. You’ve been running yourself into the ground lately. I really could not care less about getting something- I’m sure you’d be very thoughtful, but that’s not the point of the holiday. _I_ got you something because _I_ wanted to. Now open your gift. That's an order.”

He nudged the box one last time, sending it another inch closer. “Plus, don’t you want to know what’s inside?” he taunted.

Dammit. He had her made. She pulled the box in front of her with another glare at Cayde. He looked insufferably smug.

She turned her attention to the package. It was a middling size and covered in a pale blue paper dusted with silver. A navy-blue ribbon was tied around it with care. She thought for a second to shake it and listen to the rattle, but her common sense won out. Too big a risk of some explosion. Instead, she eased her belt knife out of its sheath and started carefully slicing through tape.

“You’re supposed to rip it open, Jax,” Cayde said, sounding exasperated.

“The paper’s pretty,” she countered. She slid the box free and folded the wrapping neatly. It was a gun case. She popped the latches.

Her first reaction was visceral rejection. Inside was a very familiar Requiem sidearm. It was almost immaculate- new paint, not a speck of rust. She noted distractedly that cushioned in the foam beside it were a few magazines and an old-school leather holster, but her main attention was riveted to the gun.

She took it from the case with numb fingers. It had been months since she’d even _thought_ about this weapon, practically years since she’d last touched it- and for good reason.

Azra Jax had gone into the Vault of Glass fully kitted out- sniper rifles, rocket launchers, shotguns, scout rifles- even a sword. She’d had enough ordinance to take on a Cabal Firebase. The only gun that had survived was a beaten-up and barely-functional Solar sidearm. The Requiem hadn’t even been her main energy weapon. It had been lying around and brought on a whim.

She’d tried to get rid of it afterwards, but something had stopped her. The armor she’d come out with was dirty and so worn it was falling apart. The cloak had ended up in tattered rags. The Requiem had been the one thing she _could_ keep. A rare bit of sentimentality had stayed her hand.

But she didn’t want reminders of the Vault of Glass and the eternity she’d spent trapped there. Unable to bring herself to destroy the gun, she’d buried it deep in her vault where she wouldn’t have to look at it.

“Commissioned Banshee for a refurbishment job,” Cayde bragged. “Kept all the original parts, but it should work like new.”

“ _Like new_ , Cayde, I got this originally from the Vanguard before the Great Disaster! ‘New’ is seven decades out of date.”

“Hey,” Cayde said, offended. “That gun’s been through a hell of a lot and it’s _still kicking_. That makes it top-tier in my book, no matter how battered it got. Rather have that than some shiny-new model that might fail on you. It’s proved its worth.”

Azra slipped a magazine in. Chambered a round. Flicked on the safety, flicked it off again, cocked the slide and released it. The motions were the most familiar thing in the world, easy as breathing.

She removed the magazine and ejected the round from the chamber. The gun was indeed her original one- she could feel her own Light pressed into the metal. Banshee had miraculously fixed almost every dent and scratch, but there was that tiny deformity in the stock, the pinhole she’d drilled into the sights.

She hadn’t wanted reminders of the Vault. Holding the gun again hurt. It brought the fear and despair she’d felt there one step closer. Horror circled at the edge of her mind, waiting to sink its teeth into her again.

But the resilience and determination she’d forged in the Vault was closer, too. The Requiem hurt, but it hurt in a _good_ way, like sore muscles after a rough mission. The pain was a reminder of her strength. Steeling herself against it brought back good memories, too.

She loaded the gun again, fingers acting without need of conscious thought, and made room for the holster on her belt. Its weight felt natural there. And Cayde was right- she’d come out of the Vault broken, too. But the fact that she was still around was something to be proud of.

“Thanks,” she said roughly.

Cayde put a supportive hand on her back. “Now go put on that nice suit of yours. Shiro’s taking both of us out to dinner.”


	26. Loner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not fallen off of the bandwagon. I was kidnapped by the plot bunnies. Anyways, here's like 4,500 words of a self-indulgent alternate timeline in which Azra was raised ten years earlier.

What we are is the sum of a thousand lies  
What we know is almost nothing at all  
But we are what we are till the day we die  
Or till we don't have the strength to go on

Strength to Go On - Rise Against

* * *

July 14, 2868, 19:32; Old Portugal, Earth

“Oh, hello?” Andal said.

He wasn't expecting to find anyone. This part of the world was usually deserted. He'd sent the others off to get firewood and water while he wandered down the coast, looking for anything that could be used as a windbreak. They should have a fire tonight. Everyone was bored after a day of riding. He’d just about given up hope (most of the trees lay further inland, choked in dense underbrush and long grass) when he happened a perfect spot. A few boulders had been pushed together, providing a very solid shelter against the sea breeze.

Only issue: it was occupied. He’d dismounted his Sparrow and approached the site on foot, rounded the side of the formation, and come face-to-face with a stranger. She was half-sitting, half-lying, with disheveled hair and a confused expression.

She was a Hunter, quite obviously, from her slim, lightly armored frame and the tattered cloak she was still using as a blanket. The sound of his Sparrow must have woken her up. She blinked up at him with bleary eyes. There was a pattern on her cheek where it had rested on her forearm guard.

“Uh,” she said, sitting up further.

“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” Andal apologized. “We didn’t think there was anyone in the area. We’re just- that’s four of us, including me, we were looking for a good place to spend the night.”

“Gimme a second,” she rasped, pulling herself into an upright position and scrubbing at her face. “I just got back from Mercury, my sleep schedule’s all whacked up.”

“Would you mind sharing your site for the night?” he asked. “Say no if you want. You were here first.”

“Uh, sure,” she said, sounding anything but. Andal considered what he’d do if some random group appeared and asked to spend the night.

“We don’t want to intrude on your space,” he said.

The Hunter shrugged, seeming to finally pull herself into consciousness. “Ain’t my space more than anyone else’s. And there’s not anywhere else good for miles. You’re fine.”

“Well then, thank you very much,” Andal said graciously. “I’ll ping the others.” He stretched his legs briefly and settled into a crouch. “Name’s Andal, by the way. Andal Brask.”

“Aza Jax,” the other Hunter replied hesitantly.

He hadn’t heard of her, but he could tell she was already uncomfortable enough without intrusive questions. Andal set about moving rocks to make room for three more bodies in the little nook.

* * *

AB: Found a spot, coordinates to follow.

AB: There’s a Hunter already claimed the space but she’s willing to share. Be nice.

* * *

It wasn’t long before the rest of the Crew rolled up. 

“Awww,” Cayde complained as he dismounted his Sparrow. “I was hoping it would be someone we knew.”

“What did I tell you about being nice?” Andal scolded. “Rude.”

“What did you expect, being all mysterious?” Tevis said. “It’s like teasing a puppy.”

“In any case, introductions are in order,” Andal announced. He turned to the loner, gesturing as he spoke. “This here’s my pack, Cayde-6, Tevis Larsen, Shiro-4.”

“Azra Jax,” the woman said, dipping her head in a gesture of respect.

“Well, Azra,” Cayde said. “What’s your opinion on whiskey?”

* * *

It took a few hours and several alcoholic beverages for Azra to loosen up. But she did loosen up. She was better than average for knife tricks but had a terrible poker face. She told some interesting stories about her exploits in the outer system.

Exploits, Andal thought, that she should have been known for. He should at least recognize her name- if her tales were true (and she didn’t give off the air of exaggeration), she was a very promising up-and-coming scout. Not too many Guardians laid claim to the icy moons and dwarf planets in cis-Jovian space, despite the promise of Golden-Age settlements lost to time.

“How old are you?” Andal thought to ask.

“Nine years. Well, actually, ten. In about…” She tilted her head.

“Two hours,” her Ghost answered. "More or less."

“It’s your _birthday_?” Cayde gasped.

“I was raised about half a klick that way,” she replied, jerking her head in a vaguely northwestern direction. “Came back to celebrate. Mercury’s kind of dead, anyway. Too much sand.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Shiro agreed. “I swear I still find it in my boots sometimes.”

“Well, congratulations,” Andal said. “Ten’s a big year. Can’t believe we haven’t crossed paths before.”

“Ah, I don’t hang around people much. City life… ain’t my jam, you know?” She smiled quite convincingly. Too convincingly.

Andal tilted his head. “Would have thought you’d turn up in a patrol rotation or something. “

Her shoulders drew up in discomfort, though she feigned nonchalance. “I’m not a schedule type. I go where the work’s god, help out a little, then on to the next place. Don’t like getting tied down.”

Andal wasn’t the only one that noticed the smile fade from her face. Cayde thought a change of subject was in order. “We’ve put it off long enough,” he announced. “It’s time for the bets.”

“Bets?” Azra asked.

“Old tradition,” Cayde said. “Starting at five hundred Glimmer. The preferred subclass of our new acquaintance.” He was too busy sorting his glowing cubes of currency to notice Azra go stiff.

“So, two thousand Glimmer in the pot. I’m betting Gunslinger.”

“…Nightstalker,” Shiro offered, sounding a bit unsure.

Tevis just watched the newcomer with narrowed eyes. She was panicked. They’d crossed a line somewhere between the questioning and the bets. 

She was as flighty as she’d claimed. The new Hunter stood up, tense. “I’ll-“ she began.

“Don’t answer it,” Andal said. He’d caught on quickly they were putting their acquaintance on edge. “Cayde, you’re pushing. Stop.”

“But-“ the Gunslinger protested.

“No. You’re making her uncomfortable. She’s letting us stay here.” Giving her the implicit power to kick them out seemed a good call. Anything to shift the balance of power a little. Interacting solo with a pack of four would leave anyone feeling at a disadvantage.

“Fine,” Cayde groused. “Bet’s off. For now.”

Azra looked ready to leave anyway. “Sorry,” Andal said, before she had a chance to make up her mind. “It’s easy to forget not everyone’s so comfortable around new people. We’re trying to be friendly, it’s coming across as pushy.”

“I’ll lay off,” Cayde promised.

She frowned and sat. “Alright.”

* * *

Azra rolled over. It wasn’t that she was uncomfortable- the art of falling asleep anywhere was one she had mastered by this point. She just wasn’t tired.

She could have slept, maybe, but her six-hour nap that afternoon had made her well-rested. The slight snoring noises were keeping her awake. It wasn’t even the noise, it was that she wasn’t alone. She could literally count on her hands the number of nights in her life she’d spent with other people in her space.

She sat up, careful to be quiet. The coals of the fire glowed dully, but the moon was out now. Tevis Larsen sat on top of the boulder, staring at the horizon.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered, knowing he’d hear. “I can take next watch. You should get rest if you’ve got an operation tomorrow.” It would give her more time to think.

He made some gestures at her that she recognized as military hand-signs, his head tilted to the side.

She shook her head. “Never learned signing,” she whispered. “Didn’t have a reason to.”

Tevis eyed her for a moment, then shrugged and slid off the boulder. Permission enough. She affixed her cloak back on her shoulders and stretched the stiffness out of her muscles.

The night air was chill, but it felt good. Refreshing. There were a few wisps of clouds in the sky, but the clear parts were filled with stars. Azra sat on the top of the largest rock and took in the ambiance of the coast at night. 

If she were to leave, now would be the time. It would be incredibly easy. No awkward questions or explanations. Just go. A big part of her itched to. It wasn’t like this would last forever. She could pull off a couple of days at most before she’d have to split. Better do it now, when she was just a curious stranger to them.

But a part of her didn’t want to. That part of her mourned her nights alone. She found a lot of peace in the solitude, but her life was always missing something fundamental. If she really was meant to be a loner, she figured, this heartache wouldn’t be rearing its head with such ferocity. She thought maybe it had died its final death, but it was so loud now. It had taken so little to wake it up.

She turned to look back at the sleeping Hunters. 

To her minor shock, Tevis looked back at her. She caught the gleam of moonlight reflected in his open eyes, though he lay still.

He was waiting for her to go. He was expecting her to bail, but he'd given her the opportunity for easy way out. From kindness.

“If I go,” she whispered over the distant sound of the waves, “I’ll wake you up first. I’m socially inept, I’m not a jerk.” She’d taken on the watch post. She wouldn’t abandon them blind to whatever danger the night could produce.

Tevis squinted at her, shrugged a shoulder, then rolled over to face the other way.

Azra was left with her thoughts.

For a few hours, at least. Dawn came eventually. She was eying the lightening sky, wondering when (or even if) she should wake up the others, when one of them stirred.

It was the short Exo. Shiro-4. He groaned and rolled over, pushing himself upright before he was fully awake. He took in the scene, Tevis sleeping by the coals and Azra on her watch post, with a steady eye.

“I was wondering if I should wake people up,” Azra murmured.

“Let ‘em sleep,” Shiro said. “I’m an early riser.” He picked his way through the bodies and piles of stones. Azra shifted without thinking to give him room on the boulder.

“I try to catch the sunrise,” Shiro explained once he’d settled. “It’s the best time of the day.”

“It’s pretty,” Azra said, “but I’m usually too anxious to get going to appreciate it.”

“It’s important to slow down every once in a while,” Shiro said. “You get so busy moving though life you forget to live it. It’s worth it taking a few minutes to think. Lets you approach the rest of the day with a level head.”

Azra studied the slowly changing colors. It _was_ nice, she decided.

“Do you want to come with us?” Shiro asked.

“Huh?”

“On our lab raid.” They’d talked about it last night, some unexplored Golden-Age structure the Fallen had holed up in. Ripe for the picking. “We could use an extra pair of hands. I’m sure Andal would be overjoyed.”

She looked at the molten orange of the clouds, then turned her head to look west, where the sky was merely pale blue.

“Maybe,” she said.

* * *

July 15, 2868, 15:-5; Old Portugal, Earth

The lab was impressive, Azra had to admit. It wasn’t a nut she could have been able to crack on her lonesome. Something like this she’d put in a report and fire off to the City. Let someone else raid the Fallen nest. (She wasn’t in this for wealth, anyway.)

“Azra, if you watch the door, it’ll free Tevis up to help clear the building,” Andal offered. He had a map out in front of him, considering escape routes.

She shrugged. “Alright. Are we expecting trouble?”

“Not if we do our jobs right,” Andal said. “Okay, once we’re done, we’ll just head south until our jumpships can come. There shouldn’t be much out there to put up resistance.”

“I’m not in the City network right now,” Azra said. “They changed the codes last week and I haven’t gotten around to updating them. I’ll have to get to a patrol beacon or something to call my ship. I left it in orbit near Lisbon.”

“Well, if we need a quick exit, one of us can give you a lift,” Andal said. “Meantime, Sparrows are the best bet. Rally point will be Brinches.” He gestured to a small town a few inches down on his map.

* * *

They stormed the lab with _ease_. Azra was definitely not used to having this much firepower behind her. The others paused at the door to reload their weapons, then with a couple of nods and informal salutes, they were gone.

Azra pulled her Scout Rifle and used its scope to scan the field. There was thunder in the distance, but no movement beyond that caused by the wind.

“…They’re nice,” her Ghost ventured.

Azra shrugged. Yes, they were friendly. Yes, she liked them. “Doesn’t change what’s going to happen,” she muttered.

“I hate this,” Spark said. “I wish things were different.”

Azra took that with silence. They both hated it, but they were exiles for a reason. It was a matter of time until that reason was brought to light. They couldn’t keep anyone forever.

“We should split after this, maybe,” Azra ventured. “We could get their transponder codes. Keep it casual acquaintance.”

Spark spun in consideration. “I like that. Even just having someone to ping for advice.”

There was a dark speck on the horizon. Azra focused her sights. It was a ship with a distinctive asymmetric design.

She turned on her input to the voice feed. “You said we weren’t expecting trouble, but I have a Ketch incoming,” she announced.

“Maybe they’re just here for a visit?” Cayde asked hopefully.

“Better be prepared,” Andal said. “Tevis, your help will make this go faster. Shiro, go back up Azra. Hold that door, it’s our best way out.”

Azra did some gear-shuffling while she waited; the open field would require some more ranged weapons. The wind was picking up now. It was a toss-up: would the rain arrive first, or the Fallen?

Shiro came to the door, nonchalant as one could be while waiting for a Fallen attack. “Lovely weather we’re about to have,” he said.

“If the river level’s anything to go by, it’ll be a doozy of a storm,” she replied. “Thunder’s been going off for about twenty minutes. Wonder if Exos make good lightning rods.”

Shiro snorted. “Don’t worry about me. Lighting isn’t anything.”

Azra was hit with the sudden, intense fear that this would be the last time she ever spoke to Shiro. Either one of them would die or they’d get separated, or worse, they _wouldn’t_ and Azra would have to cut herself off the hard way. Maybe they’d figure out her secret and make it easier on her.

That last half-considered wish ended up coming true. Two Skiffs detached from the party and swooped low, disgorging Fallen onto the field.

“If they storm the doors, we’ll have to fight through them to escape,” Shiro said. “I’ll go distract them. You call when the others get here and I’ll pull back.”

“I don’t like you going in solo,” Azra said, “but I don’t have any other ideas. Play it cautious.”

Shiro winked and pulled an Arc Blade from the air.

She watched in fascination as the flitted through the enemy troops. There was that flicker, that jolt that she never had been able to replicate. He leapt from one spot to the next, suddenly _there_ and _real_ , cutting the throat of a Captain, before vanishing into the wind. It was like he only existed when he wanted to.

But he couldn’t last forever. Azra didn’t know what happened, exactly: he tripped, or he ran out of juice, or someone just got in a really lucky shot. Shiro went from crackling electricity to dying to dead in a heartbeat. His Ghost called a warning over the comms.

And still the rest of his pack hadn’t arrived. Azra grit her teeth. The rain was falling in earnest now and the wind was picking up. Even if Shiro’s Ghost rezzed him, he was surrounded. Every second the Fallen got more organized. They’d be pushing for the door soon.

She heard voices at the end of the hallway. Finally there was Andal and Cayde and Tevis, running at a flat-out sprint. But they were still at least twenty seconds away. If they wanted to capitalize on the confusion Shiro had caused before he died, they’d have to act now.

The decision was made, she realized. She could not sit and wait. The only question was how much she’d regret this later.

She cast a last glance down the hallway and pulled the Void over herself. Then, invisible, she dove from her cover and began sprinting across the field. She’d need to cross as much distance as possible before the snipers made her position. Twenty feet away from the first pack of Vandals she leapt high in the air, discarded the invisibility like an old cloak, pulled her Staff, and let gravity drive her towards the enemy.

Melee was always her strong suit. She had no trouble bobbing and weaving her way through the Fallen, focusing more on forward movement than killing. When she reached Shiro’s Ghost, she planted her feet and swung her Staff roundhouse, scattering the nearby foes.

“Backup!” Spark called. Bullets rained around her, killing or wounding the Fallen on her flanks, letting her focus on what was in front of her. Fire was beginning to pour in. She was forced to spin her Staff and deflect most of it, holding her ground until-

Shiro’s Ghost raised him on his feet, Sidearm in hand. He looked bewildered for a second, but pushed it aside. “Retreat!” he called.

“I’m right behind you,” she answered. He threw a grenade to clear their way. Azra danced backwards, shielding them both from the maelstrom of bullets being fired at them.

They broke free. The hail of munitions slackened. Shiro was on his Sparrow as soon as there was enough room to summon it.

Azra let her Staff wink out of existence and turned to follow suit-

But some of the snipers were smart. Seeing the Arcstrider deflecting most of their bullets, they’d elected to hold their fire and wait. As soon as Azra’s defensive forcefield was gone, they focused on her.

Three shots made it- one ricocheting harmlessly off of her helmet, another absorbed by her chest armor, and one piercing through her thigh.

She fell. A Vandal was on top of her almost immediately-

Then a bolt of fire screamed through the air and the Vandal was dust. Azra glanced to see Cayde astride his Sparrow, a burning Gun in his hand. He carefully leveled it and disintegrated a few of the troublesome snipers.

It was enough for Azra to summon her Sparrow and throw herself on it. She pushed the thrusters to max even before she’d settled into the seat, chasing the retreating tails of the rest of the Hunter’s vehicles. Pikes screamed after her, but they were just a bit too slow to catch up.

Luck had one last bad card to deal her: the Ketch had finally brought its guns to bear. There was no warning before a shell hit nearby and the explosion tossed her sideways. Azra managed to roll and come back up on her feet, but there was the unmistakable screech of Sparrow engines failing. Her bike careened off to the left and exploded. The Pikes closed in, their drivers screaming for blood.

Azra turned and ran. She couldn’t make out any Sparrow-trails through the rain. Another shell whistled by harmlessly and landed fifty meters to her left, throwing up a fountain of dirt. In another few seconds the Pikes would be close enough to start firing, but the storm would shorten the effective range of the Ketch’s guns. She might be able to make it clear if someone had waited for her.

She scanned the horizon for ship trails but saw nothing. The comms were full of the feedback of an empty channel. She was alone.

 _See_? A bitter part of her whispered. _You were right._

Then a Jumpship passed overhead, dangerously low, dangerously close to the shells still whizzing through the air. It pulled a crazy fishtail turn, passing just close enough for transmat.

* * *

Shiro and Azra were the last two to arrive in Camp. Everyone paused in wringing out their gear and Azra's hopeful look fell from her face. They’d all seen her pull her Staff.

She moved straight from denial to anger. “I’m so stupid!” she groaned, kicking a rock. It clattered off through the trees. “I should have just left last night. I’m such an _idiot_.”

“You saved my life,” Shiro said.

“Cayde would have gotten you,” she dismissed. “Or Tevis.”

“That doesn’t negate the fact that _you_ did,” Shiro said. “Thank you.”

The Arcstrider just put her face in her hands and sat. There was silence for a moment.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Andal said. 

“I know,” Azra groaned. “I understand, I’m _weird_ , I can’t _fit_ -“ 

Tevis watched as the ties cut and the bonds splintered. He thought, _one of these days she’ll learn to not bother in the first place_. He pinned the exact moment she gave up by the turn of her shoulders. “It’s… fine. I’ll go.”

“Nobody’s asking you to leave,” Andal said.

“You will,” she replied. “Just you wait.”

“Until what?” Shiro asked. “I don’t care about… whatever that was. ‘Whatever that was’ helped us get out of there without losing anyone.”

“Listen, this is… unusual,” Andal said diplomatically. “But it’s no reason to kick you out.”

“I…” she began. Then her face set. “I’m just going to go. It’s better this way.” She stood and turned to leave.

“What’s the truth?” Tevis asked. “The real truth.”

“I can’t tell people the real truth,” she bit back. She wrung her cape out viciously, set her hood.

“Don’t you think we’ve earned it?” Tevis responded. “Don’t you think _you’ve_ earned it?”

She stopped dead. Slowly, she turned back to face him. The expression on her face was so bitter, so sad. “Eventually, you’re going to ask what the Warlocks make of it. ‘Cause it is unusual, and you study unusual things.”

“Fine,” Tevis said. “What say the Warlocks about your Staff?”

“Vanguard Commander Osiris thinks I’m a threat to the City,” she replied dully. “Thinks I’m a spy for the Vex, or a tool. Says my Light’s not fixed in this time, like what you’d expect if the Vex tampered with someone’s Raising. I can’t be trusted.”

“ _What_ ,” Andal said, flat and emotionless.

Azra refused to meet anyone’s eyes. “I’ve been _trying_ to be good,” she said. “Thinking, even if it’s true, if I’m not a real Guardian, I can still help, right? Save a couple of lives, make a few maps. How can that make the Vex more powerful? But I can’t go back to the City.”

“That’s seriously not okay,” Cayde said. He was angry, righteously so. Azra shrank from it, unable to see it wasn’t directed at her.

“You’re asking me to leave,” Azra said.

“No,” Andal said. “No, no no. _Traveler_. You’re staying right here.”

She was afraid, suddenly, in a different way than she was before. Fear of retribution rather than rejection.

“Everyone’s pissed with Osiris, not you,” Tevis said quickly. “Maybe we should go talk to him. Straighten things out.”

“Let’s… not,” Azra said. “He…” She trailed off, that fear still in her stance.

“He threatened you,” Tevis guessed.

“I’m not getting all of you exiled on my account,” she said. “He’s made it clear what will happen if I start poking around. You don’t need to get involved in that.”

“I’m sorry, that’s bullshit,” Shiro said. “Even if you are involved somehow with the Vex, you have the Light. You have free will,” he reasoned. “You’re a _Guardian_. He can’t just kick you out. Not if you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Osiris takes for granted everything he has,” Andal added. “I hope he doesn’t understand what he’s done, otherwise he’s in for a world of hurt. I’m calling Alaia Ruse.”

* * *

Records of the Vanguard, DB-2868-07-15 13

Alaia Ruse: Brask. Run over already?

Andal Brask: Yeah, this isn’t about that.

AB: You know a Hunter by the name Azra Jax?

AR: Not from memory. Let me check the records.

AR: Oh. She’s that Jovian scout. A lot more than just outer-system work, though. She doesn’t really come to the Tower. One of those loner types.

AB: We ran into her in Portugal. You will never believe the story she’s just told me.

AR: Spill.

AB: So she’s not a Bladedancer. She’s got a Staff.

AR: Huh. Weird.

AB: Apparently Osiris has decided to exile her from the City for that.

AR: What.

AB: Thinks she’s Vexy or something.

AR: Is she Vexy?

AB: Not that I can tell. I mean, all the Arcstriders are long gone and she’s been pulling a Staff for ten years straight. So something’s up.

AR: ‘Something’ is not justification for exile! Jesus.

AB: Preaching to the choir, Alaia.

AR: Want to bet it’s actually nothing and Osiris jumped to the worst conclusion?

AB: No bet on that. He’s always doomsdaying. Jumps to the worst conclusions and then mucks everything good up trying to prevent disaster. He’d burn hope just to spite despair.

AR: Threatening my Hunters isn’t ‘burning hope’. That’s a real line he’s crossed. We’re going to have words.

AB: On the same page there. Mind if I have a few, too?

AR: Certainly. 

AR: I’ve heard rumors about an Arcstrider. I thought they were just rumors. She’s a decent scout.

AB: I’m going to tell you right now that she’s wasted running solo ops.

AR: Keep her there, I want to talk with you all in person. I’m… damn. My schedule’s full. Can’t blow any of this off…

AR: No, screw that. I can’t leave the Hall unattended right now but I’ll cancel my meeting with New Monarchy. This takes priority.

AB: Thanks, Alaia.

AR: I’ll be there in three hours. Please don’t let her run off.

AB: Wilco.

* * *

Andal looked back at Azra. “Alaia wants to speak to all of us in person. She’s furious. Well, as furious as she gets.”

The Arcstrider looked unsure. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“It’s Osiris causing the trouble. Now,” he straightened his shoulders and put on his best no-arguments voice. “You’re staying the night.”

“Um-“

He left her no room to protest. “You are eating our food, you are sleeping here. Or you’re lying awake staring at the sky here. Whatever. You have a place. At least until we can rip Osiris a new one. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

He knew there was hope when for a second she looked relieved.


	27. A Feast in a Time of Plague

And every day is just another town,  
The more I search you know, the less I found  
Man I’m a sucker, just a slave to sound,  
Death’s coming, I keep running

Steady Rollin’ – Two Gallants

* * *

Sometime in the Dark Ages

There was much rejoicing. It was nice, Tevis thought, to see a little merriment. Though the air had a chill, people gathered outside, wrapped in blankets or huddled around fires. People sang and danced. There was music. Pots of tea and coffee and mulled wine sat warming by the coals. Some of the larger fires had spits roasting flanks of meat. The fat dripped and sizzled, filling the entire village with an intoxicating scent.

It was amazing to see the place come alive. Just a few days ago it had felt almost desolate. The streets had been mostly empty. There was a plague in the region; The Warlords, Risen like Tevis who did not get sick, mostly ignored it. The people suffered. The rickety church here had been converted into a field hospital, though there was not much anyone could do besides keep the dying comfortable. As if the plague were not enough, the last year had been a hard one and most people were going hungry.

He’d arrived to find a dying town. Most stayed inside, huddling by meager fires and praying that the sickness would pass them over. Those that went out were filled with grim, weathered determination or shuffled between the buildings with a blankness in their eyes.

All it had taken was some nabbed food stores and a Golden-Age robotic nurse and the town had reborn itself. They had no flags but they waved threadbare ribbons and beat on handmade drums. Tevis had been delighted to find a guitar among the supplies he’d stolen and plucked out a few tunes to the awe of the children. It was nice to find a little cheer in such a hard time.

He knew the consequences would catch up to him, he just wasn’t expecting it so soon.

Lord Citan’s arrival was announced by a sudden silence. People let conversation die in their throats and hid their faces. The Risen strode through the village like a glacier: inexorable, crushing anything left in his path.

Tevis put aside the guitar and stood to meet him. The Warlord came to a stop a dozen feet away. People scrambled to vacate the area, but they didn’t go farther than the nearest cover. Wide eyes peeked out from windows and doorframes.

Lord Citan crossed his arms. “You _dare_ interfere with the lives of my people?”

Tevis supposed he should be groveling. He didn’t. “I just brought some food and medicine,” he reasoned.

“Without my permission.” Citan took another step forward and Tevis had to force himself to not take one back. “I provide my people with what they need. You challenge my authority over them.”

Tevis would be incredulous if he hadn’t seen the state the village had been in two days ago. “I didn’t even steal from you. Lady Jenka was distracted. I took _her_ stuff.” Tevis doubted she’d miss most of what he’d taken. What good was medical technology to someone Risen, whose Ghost could cure any sickness and mend any wound? What could guitars and sacks of rice and beans do sitting in abandoned store-sheds? No skin off of Citan’s back, right? 

Wrong. Citan took another step, anger growing. “Worse, then, you circumvented my taxes and invited Jenka’s anger. Your disregard for my law and my authority over the people will be punished.”

“Your food will rot in your warehouses while your people starve,” Tevis said. “Are they even yours?”

“Are you challenging me?” Citan growled. The Warlord cracked his knuckles in anticipation.

Tevis was not the ruling type. But maybe, if everyone was here, if they could see the shackles Citan had put on them, they might just stand with him. He thought maybe he’d found somewhere worth staying. But when he looked to the people huddled behind him, he saw no determination, no anger. Just fear. It was always fear.

It was too late to back down now, though. Citan let Arc crackle up his arms. Tevis reached for his gun.

He quickly learned how Lord Citan had claimed and held such large territory. A glancing blow to Tevis’s chin sent his ears ringing. Another punch knocked his wind out and sent him stumbling backwards. A third sent him sprawling. 

There was a weight on his chest and Tevis felt the crack and the sharp bloom of pain that meant a broken rib. Citan had a knee on his abdomen. Tevis struggled to breathe, struggled to move. 

“I think it is time you learned your place, Risen,” the Warlord growled. “Shall we start with a finger or two?”


	28. Vision

I wake up in the morning, oh  
And I don't know where I've been  
All alone on a mountainside   
And huddled in the wind

And it feels like I've been away for an era  
But nothing has changed at all  
And it feels like I've been with you   
But what did you you do and where have you gone?

Frozen Pines – Lord Huron

* * *

Sometimes Azra dreams her own dreams. They are fairly normal as dreams go: common ones like driving a Sparrow whose breaks won’t work properly, getting into a Crucible match to realize she’s forgotten all of her guns, bits of memories smashed together in colorful jumbles. She has nightmares, too, drowning in Darkness and torture and death. She doesn’t remember much, even when she does stay in her own head.

But most of the time she does not. She will one day learn this is a very stereotypical Arcstrider trait. They are wanderers by nature, constantly moving, and this includes their sleeping hours. So more often than not she is somewhere else. She walks the plain with the dark tower and the sunset-fractals on the ground. She passes through scenes she does not belong in, noting familiar faces, experiencing odd sensations of worlds not perceived by her own brain. She remembers these even less than her own dreams.

But she also intimately knows the Void. So sometimes when death weighs heavy on her, on days that are _worse_ for whatever reason, she goes even farther, in places not reality but certainly not dreams.

* * *

You sit on your cliff with the sun setting in front of you, the clouds shifting in the sky above you, and the sea crashing below you. The sun burns Solar and the lengthening shadows it casts shimmer Void. The wind hums electric on your tongue. It ruffles your hair and spreads out your cloak like an old friend. Grass and moss dot the cracks in the rock but for the most part the cliff is bare. It is that magic inbetween time right before sunset when the light is golden and smooth. The sea breeze is a caress against your skin. The waves roll in and out, the sound of their breaking ringing like laughter. It will rain tonight, you know. But this place is not _tonight_ , it is _right now_ , when you can smell the salt in the air and feel the grit in between your fingers.

* * *

The air here is dry without being thirsty, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and creosote. The ground is broken. The shadows cast by the half-moon are sharp-edged. You skirt them superstitiously, worried that they might cut you. Fractured boulders sit at odd angles, almost like someone scattered them from above instead of pushing them up from below. It’s easy to feel tiny here. But the stars do twinkle friendly behind the intermittent clouds, and Andal Brask’s campfire is warm and welcoming. He sits beneath one of the stone buttresses and makes jokes about you haunting him. You talk (about what, you can never remember). You can feel comfortable here if you settle your nerves.

* * *

Wei Ning stands on a plain of yellow grass that sways in the wind. It is either late morning or early afternoon by the angle of the sun, and the sky is clear and so blue it almost hurts. Stormclouds loom over the mountains in the distance, but here and now the weather is good. The grass is only knee-high, and beneath it the earth is hard and thirsty. Wei Ning fights. _Of course_ she fights. The enemies come in waves that crash against her fists, leaving neither the stain of blood nor the scar of bodies when they are defeated. There is energy in the air. Wei Ning laughs, and thunder booms in the distance.

* * *

You’re on the moon. The stars pierce the black velvet of the sky, cold and hard and brilliant. The ground is lumpy and uneven, but largely flat. The shadows are impossibly dark, the lunar dust almost blindingly bright. There is very little cover here, which leaves you feeling a bit unnerved and jumpy. Pahanin doesn’t spend too much time in this place. He says he likes to wander a lot because he doesn’t like being alone. Despite the feeling that something is about to leap out at you (from what cover, you do not know), this place does feel lonely. Desolate. Sometimes you can get him to sit down for a bit and you talk. It’s nice. A perfect marble of blue and white sits on the horizon, a promise of home.

* * *

Kabr is not here. He wasn’t, and never will be.

* * *

You know this place in the living world. It’s different here. Fellwinter Peak is devoid of its Iron Temple or cable cars. It’s not _snowing_ so much as the wind is hurling flakes of ice and sleet from place to place. The cold air snaps with cynicism. The sky fades to mist overhead. Lord Fellwinter stands there, arms crossed, unmoved by wind or ice. He gives no thanks for his rest here, but you think he appreciates what you’ve done. There is a brazier on the peak behind him, the fire burning bright despite the weather and the tired look in his optics. 

* * *

Puck lies in a boat on a small lake. The summer sun beats down, filling you with easy warmth. This place is rich with life. Water bugs skitter across the surface of the lake and fish dart by below. The buzz of cicadas fills the air. At the edges, lily pads and cattails thrive. Red-wing blackbirds perch on the stalks and compete to see which one can sing the loudest. The forest beyond is dark and cool and mysterious. Puck will demand you lie down with zir and cloud-watch. If you do, ze will weave you stories from the air. You wonder at the impossible shapes the clouds make. The smell of the lake is strong but not unpleasant.

* * *

Jolder is in a field of flowers in the shadow of a huge iron mountain. The flowers are rich blues, reds, and yellows. You can never stay here for more than a moment, but she thanks you anyway. The sky is a light gray.

* * *

You know this place too. Dwindler’s Ridge always seemed oddly empty to you in the living world. Despite all the myth and legend, it was just a place. Now, you can feel the sense of justice pulling like north pulls a magnet. A sense of things set right. You wonder how Jaren Ward knows this place; it only comes into his story after he’s gone. The sun is high and the earth is baked dust. It’s hot, but it’s a dry heat. You sit with Jaren and your feet dangle off the sheer, wind-eaten slope. It’s impossible not to draw some inspiration from the man. His every gesture is balanced in this world. No regrets, or remorse, or things left unsettled. He is bright and untarnished as gold, as well-worn steel. You notice his gun is not at his hip.

* * *

The air is clean but has a bite. You stand on a gravel-bar in some northern river. Therin Vai stands a few meters into the current and twirls a long pole made of ash. His lure flits across the surface of the river. You don’t think he’s going to have much luck catching trout, but you don’t think he cares that much. You’ve found a lot of people who go fishing don’t do so for the fish. The river sings over stones, crystal clear and shockingly cold. Hardy pines cover the ground outside of its reach, doing the laborious work of turning hard rock into more welcoming soil. This place is not tamed and never has been, even by stubborn trees. Their trunks are sparse. Therin’s rod hums as he casts again, carefully maneuvering his fly so it doesn’t hit you.

* * *

It's on a beach at night. The waves break softly against the sand, creating a pleasant background of white noise. A crescent moon sits just over the horizon. It seems to suck the light from the sky instead of providing it. The stars shimmer overhead, somehow seeming close and intimate, as if you listened hard enough you could hear their whispered secrets. Their light reflects off the calm waters. To the right, there are dunes, held together with sparse grass, forming a ten-foot tall bluff. To the left, there is the ocean. Tevis Larsen walks between them, in the place that is neither land nor sea, where the damp sand is somehow more supportive than dry or wet. He paces the shoreline or sits on top of the bluff where stone or driftwood provide a sure place. The two of you don’t talk, the silence in the air like a spell nobody wants to break. You don’t need to speak, anyway, to understand.


	29. Shattered Hopes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning: Major Character Death. This is literally _just_ major character death.**

Death is real, someone's there and then they're not  
And it's not for singing about; it's not for making into art  
When real death enters the house, all poetry is dumb  
When I walk into the room where you were  
And look into the emptiness instead

Real Death - Mount Eerie

* * *

April 02, 2893; the Waking Ruins, Venus

Cayde stared up at the giant brass circle like he could will it open.

He couldn’t will it open. He couldn’t force it open, trick it open, or blast it open. Despite it being made by the Vex and therefore being technology, he couldn’t even _hack_ it open, despite the fact that _it had been hacked open not even a week before_.

“Sorry,” Sundance said. “We’re just missing some critical piece of information.”

Wasn’t that just typical, though? Kabr’s pre-raid report to the Vanguard was frustratingly uninformative. Cayde had tried reading it but had ended up more confused than before. There had been nothing mentioned about how exactly they had planned to open the Vault.

Pahanin had also been unhelpful. He wasn’t a Warlock, he’d said, he didn’t know all the technical mumbo-jumbo, he just stood on his plate and shot his Vex.

“Even if we gather more people,” Sundance said, “I don’t think we could open this.” Not to mention they’d never be able to gather more people because Andal had forbidden another raid.

Sundance scanned the base of the spire one last time and clicked in disappointment. “Whatever secret Praedyth found to unlocking the Vault is inside, with him.” Inside, with Azra, who he couldn’t get out. Even if she was alive.

“She’s not alive, is she?” Cayde murmured.

Sundance hovered low, bumping his shoulder in sympathy. “No. She’s not.”

Cayde punched the door with such force it cracked the steel of his knuckles and broke an actuator in his wrist. The bronze Vex structure echoed dully. When Cayde removed his fist, the door didn’t even show a scratch.

* * *

October 11, 2938

Cayde knew it was over when he found the dead Ghost.

He’d been hunting Taniks, who had been hunting Andal, who’d been hunting Taniks. Cayde didn’t know if Andal knew he was being made. It was possible the Hunter Vanguard knew that Taniks was trying to pull a fast one on him and was putting on a show. Taniks had laid an obvious trail (but not too obvious, that would give the game away), then circled back around to stalk the Hunter as he followed it. Could be Andal was waiting for the moment of ambush to turn the element of surprise back on his prey.

Why did so many of Andal’s operations end up convoluted messes?

Whether Andal had known, whether he’d known Cayde had tailed him when he’d snuck out of the Tower, whatever plans he’d had, Cayde would never find out.

There was the smell of gunpower on the air, the slight singe of a Solar Light discharge, and, faintly, the ozone-burnt-hair-supernova tang of a dead Ghost. Everywhere there was blood and Ether- Andal hadn’t gone easy. Nobody could survive losing that much blood. Cayde still couldn’t believe it until he found the Ghost.

That black-and-white shell was unmistakable. Charin hadn’t died from a gunshot, she’d been ripped in half. (Taniks _was_ known for his cruelty.) Cayde cradled the pieces carefully in his hands, looked up, and saw Andal’s body.

And that was it.

* * *

June 06, 2954

"'Course it's a big deal, Tevis!" Cayde exclaimed. "You're dying, for Pete's sake!"

"You thought I was going to live forever?" The Nighstalker retorted.

For a second, Cayde wanted to yell _yes. You’re too old, I’ve known you too long, you’re not supposed to just die on me._

But he didn’t say that because he didn’t really believe it anymore. He knew better by this point.


	30. Fire of the Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize December is over, but I've been sitting on this long enough.

With progress comes problems  
With wisdom comes age  
With lessons come learning  
And pleasure comes with pain  
You can only have the sunshine after the rain

Needle in the Dark - Passenger

* * *

November 01, 2874

TYPE: Transcript.  
DESCRIPTION: Conversation.  
PARTIES: Two [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Titan, designate Shaxx [s]; One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter, designate Azra Jax [aj]  
ASSOCIATIONS: the Crucible; Jax, Azra; Lord Shaxx, Osiris; Redjacks  
//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//  
//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[s:01]: I am disappointed I did not see your name on the Crucible signups, Azra.

[aj:01]: Just because I do some scouting for your Redjacks, it doesn’t mean I’m interested in…

[Silence]

[aj:02]: Uh, lemme rephrase that.

[s:02]: You have made your opinions on the Crucible known. Though I cannot help but think there is a misunderstanding.

[aj:03]: I just don’t see the point is all. Sure, for the Kinderguardians? Let ‘em wet their feet where their Ghosts aren’t in danger. But I’m practically drowning in fieldwork already.

[s:03]: There is always something to learn. Every time the phoenix rises from the ashes, it rises stronger.

[aj:04]: Does it have to be a phoenix, though?

[s:04]: Not a fan of Osiris?

[aj:05]: That is an incredible understatement. Egotistical jerk.

[s:05]: Though he is not the… friendliest of allies, I often look back on his actions and realize that he had a point.

[aj:06]: Not all the time.

[s:06]: Nobody is perfect. But we are all on the same side, here. Time and again he has proven his worth to Humanity. I encourage you to look upon his decisions with a kinder eye. The City might not have stood without him.

[aj:07]: I can’t do that. I just… can’t. For my own sake.

[s:07]: I understand you have some history.

[aj:08]: He was the first person to… to make me question if I was right. Not just my opinions, but me. For years, he had me thinking I was wrong for existing. Though I know better now, it hurt.

[s:08]: I see.

[aj:09]: He has this really bad tendency to immediately see the worst possible outcome of any situation and gun for preventing that. No matter how improbable it is, no matter how much he screws everything else up in the process.

[s:09]: As I said, though, he often has a point.

[aj:10]: It’s easy to look back and say that, but I have to wonder just how much further along we could be if he hadn’t done some of the things he’s done. How many roads to paradise has he destroyed, trying to shut the door on catastrophe?

[aj:11]: And he’s never suffered the consequences for that. It’s the rest of us that do.

[s:10]: Perhaps it is less that he has never suffered and more that he refuses to. But he will, one day. There is a price to be paid for misheld confidence, and it is always collected eventually.

[aj:12]: On that day, maybe I’ll think of him a little more fondly. If he manages to find some humility. Until then, I’ll not parley with his ego.

[s:11]: Ego is why I wanted to speak with you, incidentally.

[aj:13]: Hm?

[s:12]: The Crucible exists so that people may learn, but that cannot be done without teachers. There are lessons to impart on the newer generation.

[s:13]: We have spoken of pride. I wanted to inform you, I have some recruits who think they will never again be bested in melee. They have the notion that strength is all it takes to win a fistfight.

[aj:14]: You want me to show them my Staff?

[s:14]: I want you to show them… consequences.


	31. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been sitting on this one since Day 1. It's been long enough.

I want to turn the whole thing upside down  
I'll find the things they say just can't be found  
I'll share this love I find with everyone  
We'll sing and dance to Mother Nature's songs  
I don't want this feeling to go away

Upside Down - Jack Johnson

* * *

Pre-Golden Age

You arrive in the system with a thousand plans already spinning inside of you. This place is so _typical_. The sun is a pretty little thing, plain but dependable. You have seen life on a countless planets in countless systems: orbiting binary stars, dancing on the edges of black holes, living in the thin rings of habitability of tidally locked worlds. It is almost too _normal_ that it has sprung up here, in the warm orbits of this steady star.

You know what you will do. The habitants of this system react to your presence with a flurry of excitement and chaos. You move with deliberate purpose to Jupiter, then to Mercury and Venus, transforming worlds. You will till the soil, make it fertile and rich. You will create an allowance, cast light on potential.

But you will not plant the seed.

There will be no Gift Masts. You will make no structures, grant no knowledge, speak only the simplest, most necessary wisdoms. They will build their own ladders. They will plant their own seeds in the farmland you have tilled, tend their own plants, weave their fibers in ways only they have invented to make rope to climb out of their hole.

That is what they do. You have visited what seems like an uncountably infinite number of worlds. You have traveled as lightly as possible, flitting between systems, uplifting civilizations, making plans, gathering strength, and tasting the joys of life. You know family, temperance and honor, beauty and harmony and ingenuity.

But this will be your victory: Curiosity. Understanding. To seek answers, to take the unknown and make it a part of yourself. To hammer the nut again and again until you find the right angle and can feast on the sweet meat of enlightenment.

They _listen_. They listen to the universe, in radio telescopes and hadron colliders and space probes. They send messages in bottles, shout into the void and eagerly await the echo. They study their world not just for power, but to wonder at its mysteries. They have drawn for themselves absolute mathematical proofs, but you know your arrival will not despair them. For they thrive in the unprovable, in theory and approximation, in intuition and emergent properties.

They listen to each other in such a rainbow of languages- spoken and written, gestured and tapped, it is a wonder anyone can understand anyone else at all. And though they have known fear and distrust, they also know appreciation. They delight in new ways to see the world, gathering words and turns of phrase to sketch unique thoughts. They speak in music and painting and dance and food, so many commonalities, it is a wonder how anyone could think themselves alone. They share their joys and sorrows in attempts of connection, of true understanding, and this makes them strong.

And they listen to themselves. Out of the chaos of life, of misunderstanding and confusion, hurtling through a cosmos so vast and so empty their entire existence is a rounding error, clinging to a speck of dust in a sunbeam, they find meaning. They take their unsolvable conjectures and irreconcilable differences and they use them as lenses to explore themselves anew. They cultivate their own gardens of thought.

They don’t need gifts. To hand them the world on a platter is to do them a disservice, to take away their greatest strength. They will build their own Golden Age, brick by brick, mistake by miscommunication, with compassion born of empathy and strength born of solidarity, and what they will achieve will mean more than despair.

All you need give them is the opportunity.

You know you have chosen correctly when they come to find you. They follow you to Mars in a ship barely capable of sustaining life. So eager are they to know, to reach out a hand in greeting, that they are willing to risk their existence just to get here a bit quicker.

They arrive just as the first rains begin to fall. For the first time in eons, the air here is thick enough to hold moisture, rich enough to transmit sound. The three Humans stand on the ridge and watch in amazement as the bone-dry sand turns to rusty mud and listen to the sound of the deluge ring across the once-desert.

You know they hear meaning in the roar.


End file.
